The Spook: Infection
by Codename FULLMETAL
Summary: Fullmetal's "exile" to the Outer Colonies has been one of the most boring events of his life. Unfortunately for him, all that is about to change when he meets something worse than anything he's ever encountered...
1. It's a Bird, It's a Plane!

**/03_04_2549/**

**/7:00 A.M./**

**/OUTER_COLONY: NASIP/**

**/ONI BASE KOVCHEG, NEW POPLAVA CITY OUTSKIRTS/**

**/STATUS: GREEN/**

It was a regular afternoon, just like any other.

The city was bustling with life, just as any should. It was a "Megacity" after all. Massive skyscrapers blocked out the skies, some easily containing some five hundred floors. Highways traced the city from end to end, all of their traffic lanes filled with vehicles. Businesses were just starting for the day. School was just opening. People were heading to their work, to the stores, or wherever their next destination would take them.

Crime was at an all-time low. The local insurrectionist cell had been detained, tried, and executed about a month ago. Law enforcement was keeping a strict hold on the city, but none of the agents had any reason to do so. Nothing bad was happening. The city was safe, and it seemed nothing could go wrong. Normal really didn't describe it well enough. Dull didn't describe it well enough.

It was _quiet._

The only thing worse than a loud environment was a quiet one.

That meant something big was about to go wrong. The quiet before the storm.

Nasip wasn't a large planet. In fact, it was small enough to be considered a planetoid. When Humanity had first stumbled upon it, they overlooked it, and for many good reasons. It had hardly had an atmosphere capable of sustaining Human- Or otherwise "Earthly," to be more correct- life. To terraform it into a more hospitable environment would have, and eventually did, cost a lot of time, money, and resources.

Most species native to the quasi-world died off for the most part, surviving only in captivity in a very controlled environment, where their base instincts became dulled, and they became nothing more than side-show attractions or scientific research projects. Others, however, adapted, and remained a part of the planet's somewhat now-unbalanced ecosystem.

As always, once the planet was more suitable for Earthly life, construction began. First the frontier, then towns, and eventually cities. Once cities became outdated, they became "Old." Their replacement, a Megacity, was built closeby, and was referred to as "New." The system of things didn't make much sense, and for most, it didn't need to. Modern times called for doing away with the old and reigning in the new, after all.

As such, this small world was more or less all city- A sprawling metropolis of a world, more city than land. That wasn't to say there weren't _some_ regions that were left untouched. While replacing the old with the new was the policy, the past was not to be forgotten. It had taught many lessons in the past. Among which was the realization that when people lived in a concrete jungle, and there was nothing but towering skyscrapers as far as the eye could see, with not a natural structure in sight... They began to feel invaded, alienated.

And so some regions were left untouched. Retreats from the city-world that some began to find less than pleasing after so long.

Yet there was more to this planet than met the eye.

The Office of Naval Intelligence base codenamed "Kovcheg" was stationed here as a sort way to keep some control in the Outer Colonies, as they were now known, and as an early warning system in case the Covenant came into the Sector. It could contact other nearby UNSC forces in order to repel the invaders and protect what little of the Outer Colonies they had left. Out of the hundreds of colonies that existed in the Outer Rim, as some called it, very few were left. They had become the casualties of a ruthless, senseless war.

The Covenant, as they called themselves, were a coalition of aliens who banded together under the same banner. They all seemed to share some common goals and ideas, which were somewhat simple. First was their religion. They all worshiped some old race that apparently existed at one point, which they had some odd idea that died off and became Gods... And apparently were waiting for their successors to step up to their mantle. The Covenant were technologically superior to Humans in just about every way, spanning across unknown numbers of worlds with unknown populations inhabiting them.

Unfortunately, they were also unified in their current cause: To completely exterminate Humanity from the face of the galaxy.

Their reasons weren't clear, other than that they deemed Humans to be an affront to their Gods.

On the other side of the scale was Humanity itself. Humanity had made many technological advancements within the past few hundred years. They were now capable of faster than light travel thanks to Tobias Fleming Shaw and Wallace Fujikawa, and had colonized many worlds because of it. The ruling government had previously been the Unified Earth Government, which stemmed from the United Nations having finally become a government rather than an organization, and inevitably taking control of the world.

Of course, all colonies created by Earth were also ruled by it.

With the Covenant surfacing in 2525, however, things had taken a drastic turn. For a while, the UEG had remained in control. However, with the fall of world after world, it became invariably clear that more drastic actions had to be taken. The United Nations Space Command, or UNSC, induced a state of martial law. Everything was for the war. Everything was to _survive. _To surrender was to fail, and to fail was to die. If there was any one characteristic that Humanity shared, it was that they did _not_ surrender in the face of a greater foe.

Not that everything was perfect. There were still many who opposed the UEG before the UNSC took command, and many more after the fact. Most of the naysayers simply dealt with it. Others resorted to more violent tactics. Humanity had been in the process of waging an endless war against itself for decades, centuries even. And with new frontiers and technologies to explore, warfare was all the more devastating.

How ironic. It took a foe who was utterly aligned against every being in the Human race to make even an uneasy peace, however temporary.

From an enclosed overlook that offered an easy view of the approach to Kovcheg, a lone figure silently sat on a bench. A large man, dressed in black. He was easily two meters tall, and appeared to be solid muscle, through and through. The fact that he was wearing the tight-fitting UNSC Orbital Drop Shock Trooper jumpsuit didn't help the appearance of it very much, rather than solidify the fact that he was someone that nobody wanted knocking on their door.

The man looked up slowly, having been staring at his jet black boots for the past ten minutes or so, and crossed his arms over his broad chest. He rolled his neck slowly, then sighed loudly, impatiently. He'd been sitting in the room for a long while now, reflecting on the past, as well as the future. Not that his mind had spun up to its full potential yet; He'd awakened from the cryochamber he chose to sleep in a mere hour ago. Despite being refreshing, it did little for one's physical or mental abilities.

It certainly did little for comfort as well.

Transitioning from the tube to the outside world wasn't too terrible. At least, not at this time of the year. The calendar wasn't the same as that of Earth. The length of hours, days, months, and years were entirely different from that of Earth, yet for the sake of ease, the UNSC chose to use a more Earthly calendar. It was the beginning of March, which might as well have been the middle of the winter. Snowstorms blew through frequently at this time of the year, but generally were never an issue. It was just _cold._

As a side-effect of the winter, the windows of the enclosed space that this man sat in were usually completely frosted over. Occasionally an automated system would clear the windows, for some purpose or another. Not like the base ever came under attack or anything; Nasip really just wasn't that important when it came to insurgents.

The man stretched his arms, revealing the "Senior Chief Petty Officer" rank emblazoned on his jumpsuit's arm, as well as the word "Fullmetal" stitched into the shirt's chest. He worked for ONI, though he didn't do the things ONI traditionally did. He was a field agent, rather than a pencil-pusher. Few "Spooks," as ONI operatives were frequently called, could say the same. He prided himself in that fact.

The man appeared to be somewhere in his late thirties in age. His hair was worn in a somewhat longer fashion than the military usually sported, a messy dirty-blonde mane. His face was in a less than regulation state, and adorned several scars. His right eye had a large burn scar over it caused by a near miss from an energy blade. His cornflower blue eyes were staring out the window with much intensity, despite the blank look that his face held. He was far older in Earth years. Cryosleep had done him many favors in that department.

His name was Edward Rommel.

He was stationed on Nasip for the sake of serving out an unofficial punishment. About four years earlier he'd been on another world, cleaning up Insurrectionist forces. The mission had gone relatively smoothly, save for the hostage crisis that had ensued. Things had become very tense, and for him, very personal. A fluke and terrible coincidence had more or less driven him over the brink of his sanity for a while. He'd broken the jaw of his superior because of it, as well as his fist.

Rommel had barely managed to keep in the UNSC after that event, but people had gotten away with worse. There was a need for good troopers in these harsh times, so there was a lot more lenience. He'd been a Lieutenant at the time of the skirmish. They'd knocked him back down to a Petty Officer Third Class, nearly Crewman. He'd only managed to get even that much because of the testimonials of other people in his unit, namely his closest friend.

So for the next few years he hadn't seen much action. He was continually stationed in places where there wasn't much happening, it seemed. He had taken place in a few of the decade's major battles, but for the most part, he seemed to have been placed where the action _wasn't_ happening. Being a man of action, he was almost certain that it was entirely intentional.

Sighing loudly again, Rommel shifted in his seat. He reached over toward a table to his side, picking up a ceramic mug that was placed upon it. The mug was white, and, unsurprisingly, had the "all-seeing-eye" that was ONI's logo slapped across it. It was full of a thick, brown brew, which even now had heat fumes wafting upward quite visibly. He took in a deep breath, taking in the aroma of the coffee he'd just recently acquired. He grinned at it briefly.

This early in the morning, with this much crap to deal with? He'd need the caffeine.

He tilted the cup back, taking in a brief sip of the stuff. It was strong, but that was good. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the warmth of it in comparison to the bitter cold of the world outside these windows.

And then there was a flash, and a very peculiar sound.

With a third sigh, Rommel lowered the cup of coffee. His eyes remained closed, and he sat there for a few seconds, listening to the noise. It was a combination of droning, hissing, and pure vacuum all at the same time. Its initial release reminded him of a sonic boom, but that wasn't right. It had more to do with light than it did sound. He shook his head slowly. **"Somebody better have spiked my coffee with something, or it's going to be a Hell of a day," **the man said in a low, gravelly voice.

He opened his eyes slowly, pushing himself up off his seat. He took a few paces forward, glancing upward at the sky. Everything was bright, as though the Sun had just gone supernova and they were experiencing the effects of it first-hand now.

His eyes fell upon it quickly. The spot in the sky was still very small, and was only now beginning to form the outer ring, so it appeared as a bright white ball. Lightning-like crackles rippled outward from it as energy was released. It was like a second Sun had formed right there in the sky. To someone who was inexperienced, they'd probably think that someone had set off a nuclear bomb in the upper atmosphere.

To someone who'd been in the war as long as he had? This was the indicator that all Hell was breaking loose.

The ball seemed to tear itself open. Wider and wider it spread, the outer ring of energy expanding through the sky, and the insides of the ring grew dark. Flashes of black and purple flickered in this new void, each one spawning a new arc of energy that crackled through the morning sky. The skies began to grow dark, as though the void was sucking the light out. The void seemed to linger there for a moment, not doing anything. It was, more or less, a self-contained black hole.

An anonymous voice announced various things over the communication lines. _**"Slipspace rupture detected. Control, are we scheduled for any friendly arrivals?"**_

**_"Negative, Kovcheg. Stand-by for further orders..."_**

The droning got louder, and suddenly the emptiness was filled. A tan-white, bulbous structure slowly emerged from the darkness, a _massive_ object that was easily bigger than any building. It dragged out of the Slipspace rupture, carrying the tail end of the structure with it. The shape of its entirety was hard to describe, with a very bulbous form in the rear, and a bulbous yet hook-like forward section. Its design was an affirmative appearance in Covenant construction. Two ships shared the same design, the Assault Carrier as well as the Supercarrier.

The sheer size of this one made it clear: It was a Supercarrier. At twenty seven kilometers long, the thing was a monstrosity. Lord only knew what might be aboard it.

**"Winter Contingency is being declared. The Covenant is on Nasip."**

Alarm klaxons started to blare. Red lights began flashing all over the place, and the voice started to call everyone to their positions. Rommel looked down at the coffee again, and frowned. **"I **_**really**_** hope I'll wake up from this at any second now..." **He downed another drink, staring at the Supercarrier for a while longer. It was moving rapidly. Something was... _Off. _It wasn't showing signs of hostile intent, and no other ships accompanied it. Yet it was moving so rapidly...

At a downward angle.

Something else was amiss, too. There was some sort of _cloud_ being emitted from the ship, through a great many holes in the hull of the ship. It had taken great structural damage, he could see that even from this far.

He watched from afar as the ship collided with several skyscrapers, and fell like a rock. A whole lot of debris was being kicked up, and he realized what was going to happen even as it was: the ship was crashing, and by the looks of things? _Deliberately._ Covenant didn't usually make kamikaze runs with capital ships, especially not before they did some other damages first.

Sighing, Rommel knew that a long day was ahead of him.

He chugged the rest of the mug, and shoved himself up and out of his seat. There was battle to be done, and he, as always, would be in the thick of it.


	2. Situation Analysis

_"March 4, 2549_

_ Covenant Supercarrier just came outta Slipspace, low-atmo. Here I thought the Covvies got it figured out that a low-atmo doesn't work. Too many variables. Didn't seem to matter anyway, the thing just buried its nose in the fucking dirt. There's a lotta trouble getting stirred up, tho. Command's sending me & the boys in to see what all the commotion's about. Expecting most of the Covvies to be dead, minimal resistance at most. Who knows, maybe we can use this opportunity to tear apart their damn ships and put good ol' reverse-engineering to good use..."_

The ride from Kovcheg to New Poplava had been unbearably long, given the fact that nobody had a clue as to what was happening. First a Supercarrier had emerged and leveled more than a few buildings in the process, then it crashes, and then... Well, who knew? The UNSC had contacted the local law enforcement agencies, NPPD, to get an early reconnaissance of the area until more suitable forces could arrive to sort out whatever had happened, and eliminate any possible hostiles that may have survived the crash.

Not that it was likely there would be many survivors. Supercarriers were huge, but to put together all the clues? There probably wasn't anybody on-board that thing in the first place left alive to control it. They were most likely looking at a ghost ship.

Still. This was big, and nothing big was ever good.  
Something else that was worrying him was the fact that he'd yet to hear any intel on the situation as of yet. He kept contacting COMCON, demanding any information he could. Every time he did, he was told that any units in the immediate area of the Supercarrier seemed to be experiencing communication problems. Any information on the area had to not only be acquired, but also passed down the line to an area where comms were less patchy.

Which meant that

**"Hey, uh... Ed?"**

The words came in over the communications channel. Rommel had long since adorned his armor for the investigation and possible combat situation. Despite that, the one looking to gain his attention was actually sitting across from him. The man looked up expectantly, tilting his head slightly as he gave his full attention to Dominic.

Corporal Dominic Almec had been his best friend for a long, long while. They had decided to join the UNSC together, more or less. Rommel had joined for personal reasons, and Dom simply followed suite. He doubted he could ever shake the bastard, it seemed that this was one tag-along he just could not manage to get rid of. So he was personally responsible for him, more or less. They'd drifted apart on more than one occasion, taking different paths. Overall, they hadn't made a difference past rank and titles.

**"Yeah Dom?"** he asked. He had a feeling he knew where this was going anyway.

**"Don't the Covvies usually come, y'know, with more than one ship? And not slam it into the dirt?"** It figured. He was arriving at the same conclusions that Rommel already had. That was alright, Rommel was feeling patient, more or less. Dom wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, but he was still a decent addition to the squad.

Rommel nodded in response. **"Yeah... Unfortunately..." **he responded quietly.

**"Big Covvie ship wants to crash itself, that's fine by me," **said another voice. It was that of Taylor Campbell. The Staff Sergeant was the squad's second in command. He was, more often than not, gruff and by the book. _He_ was a lot more bold than he was brains. **"Just means we ain't got to do the job o' killing 'em ourselves."**

** "That's exactly why he hates it,"** snickered Almec. **"Less kills for him."**

Rommel rolled his eyes, and looked out at the city from his bird's-eye view. He didn't particularly care for the UH-144 aircraft. As it was, he hated flying in just about all forms of it. He _especially_ hated it when the vehicle he was flying in provided no protection from virtually anything, thanks to the open troop bay, had little space in the event of an emergency, and if it went out of control?

Everybody inside might as well have considered themselves screwed.

The good thing about the aircraft, however, was that it provided a relatively good view of everything going on around the area. From here, Rommel could see that a portion of the city was in ruin. Black smoke billowed upward from buildings that were now ablaze. _Blue_ smoke was also clouding the skies. That was one of few characteristics Rommel had ever really bothered to note about Covvie vehicles. When they exploded, their flames burned blue.

_**"Entering the hot zone. Advise you boys seal your suits if you haven't already."**_It was the voice of the Falcon's pilot. He had a point. They'd have to fly straight through a good deal of smoke, and breathing that stuff in definitely wouldn't be helpful to anyone's health.

Rommel nodded. **"You heard 'im boys. Ziplock procedure."**

The Orbital Drop Shock Trooper armor was a pretty fearsome piece of kit. The bodysuit was more or less a liquid cooling garment, used to regulate suit temperature. The main layer was a pressure suit, which was thicker, and far heavier than the LCG. The outer layer was a combination between kevlar armorweave and flameproof materials. These different components made the jumpsuit very heavy, but it was a necessity.

The armor itself, on the other hand, was what it sounded like: Titanium and ceramic composite armor plating combined to create full body armor, which covered just about everything other than the joints. The most impressive part of it was indeed the helmet. It was a state of the art, high-tech piece of equipment. The visor would normally appear clear while in an "off" state, but one could easily polarize the visor, causing it to transform into a midnight blue hue. Many sophisticated systems would then display various information to the helmet's user through the Heads-Up Display, or HUD, by using the Visual Intelligence System/Reconnaissance, or VISR.

For generally obvious reasons, the armor was usually painted a matte black, with few identifying features. Some units chose to paint them based on rank; Others based on personal preference. Camouflage panels could be added to the suit's armor plating for varying environments.

Essentially, the armor was an armored vacuum suit that protected the user from most types of damage. That was good, since they'd have to withstand _all types_ of damage.

The armor had, more or less, been designed for the purpose of a relatively lightweight, yet very effective body armor that protected all regions of the body, and could withstand high temperatures. The reason for this was that an ODST's usual purpose was as their name implied: A shock trooper. They got sent down to combat zones first, clearing the way for everyone else. They qualified as Special Forces, and were occasionally deployed as such. More often than not, they were suicide units that were never really meant to survive.

Their typical method of entry into hot zones reflected this. Usually they jumped into sets of pods stationed on-board a larger ship, and literally _fell_ from the atmosphere to the planet. The insanity of the event, combined with the immense heat experienced inside these damnable pods, left the ODSTs with the moniker "Helljumpers."

Their motto? "Feet first into Hell."

Though Rommel's official Helljumper days had long since ended, he still sported the armor. He still did the same things. He just wasn't an official ODST anymore; He was a part of the Navy now, rather than the Marines. This was a fact he had to keep reminding himself of, even though he more often than not didn't like it.

The Senior Chief Petty Officer himself generally always sealed his suit, for the simple reason of habit. It wasn't comfortable, and the suit sure as Hell did _not_ breathe. But that was the idea. Any and all airborne pollutants would be filtered out, allowing for nice, breathable air to be sucked in. If no air was available, then reserve oxygen would last for about ninety minutes before running out. From there, it was up to the trooper to figure out what to do. Generally it was a case of being totally FUBAR.

Everyone here's armor was configured in different ways, depending on their own needs and functions to fulfill. Everyone had equipped urban camouflage panels, given that they were in an urban environment. Not that it mattered, you could see them coming from a mile away, all you had to do was follow the trail of lead being dropped. But different jobs called for different gear.

Rommel's gear was a bit more customized than most others. Although he retained most of the standard gear, he had several attachments added on. His left shoulder pauldron had the two-piece CQB ballistic plating, which was worn over the standard shoulder, overall amounting to double the protection on that side. His helmet had the Hardened Uplink/Remote Sensor package mounted on the right side of the dome, which essentially amounted to a helmet-mounted flashlight, a helmet camera, and a better radio system all built into one unit. Additionally, he chose to sport the large variant of the ODST rucksack.

What that meant was that he had a lot more protection, situational awareness abilities, communication capabilities, and more space to stow things that could come in handy... Mainly, ammunition.

Speaking of ammunition, the man was practically at the brink of what he could carry. He carried two spare magazines on the left side of his chest plate, and his combat knife on the right. In addition to that, he carried plenty of spare ammo on his belt, along with a trio of both smoke canisters and M9 frag grenades. He carried two magazines on each greave, as well as a large pouch on his left thigh filled with it. That was before one even factored in the magazines strapped to the outside of the backpack, too.

When it came to a firefight? He wouldn't be at any loss for ammo.

His armor was a mix of black and maroon. In most regions, it kept the standard black; he still wore the urban camouflage panels as well. However, in several areas his armor either sported a maroon stripe- Such as on his pauldrons, along the crest of his helmet, and thighs- or had the entire plating in that color, such as his chest. But it wasn't all that way.

Right smack in the center of his chest was a skull-and-crossbones insignia, stylized in the fashion of the _Totenkopf _used by the Schutzstaffel in World War II. Around the visor of his helmet, was what appeared to be the upper jaw of a Human skull was painted very vividly.

The man's overall appearance made him look very grim. A walking tank daring anyone to challenge it.

By comparison, he definitely put the other members of his unit to shame. Most of them chose the standard battle armor, with little variation apart from an HU/RS. The only one who really deviated very much was Mark Findish; the man was the team's sniper. And his gear was still typical, given the fact that he wore the macrobinoculars and sniper pauldron typical of his position. He would occasionally be known to adorn a ghillie suit over his armor, but it hardly mattered when you were in the city.

Findish wasn't saying much at the moment. He probably wasn't feeling too comfortable, given the fact that he was currently sitting in one of the seats that sat on the ledge of the troop bay. Which meant that his feet were freely swinging over the side of the aircraft, and he had no real method of actually staying in place other than sheer force of will- The vehicle had no harnesses, belts, or otherwise to keep one in place. Also worth noting was the fact that one would be sitting directly beside the turboprop nacelle jets, and in a place where you had nothing to shield you from the rotor-wash.

He envied him less for the fact that he probably couldn't see a damn thing, since he was out in the open and the snow being blown around would be blinding him.

Rather frequently, Rommel had begun to question the entire intelligence behind the vehicle's design, other than getting everyone killed in the shortest amount of time possible.

Shaking his head, the Spook placed his left index and middle finger to the left side of his head, and switched the comm channel over. It wasn't a necessary practice, rather than a habitual one. He was used to using old-fashioned comm units, and found himself often having to block out noise. It did, however, still function as an easy way to show people "Don't talk to me, I'm on the radio."

**"Control, this is Ion Six-Two. We got any reports on the situation yet?"** he asked tiredly.

_**"Negative, Fullmetal," **_replied the now-familiar blank, emotionless voice. It wasn't a real person, but an AI construct that was in charge of the communications for the time being. _**"Army **__**Command Base Omega has deployed First Battalion as well as Mobile and Armored Company units. Local law enforcement is-"**_

** "Yeah, yeah, on the scene, investigating. I didn't ask who was there, I asked **_**what's happening."**_

_**"Initial reports have indicated that no action has happened yet. No life forms have been detected, and nothing has exited the ship- though the hull of the ship appears to be coated in an unidentified- presumably organic- substance. Curious, since it seems to have originated from inside the ship. Structural damages also appear to be spewing some form of gas, also of unknown origin. Potential unknown. Civilians within a fifty mile radius of the crash site are being evacuated into refugee camps until further notice. Perimeters, communication relays, and a forward post are being set up along roads by NPPD. Last update was received roughly fifteen minutes ago."**_

Rommel sighed out loud. **"What a clusterfuck." **He turned to Findish, whose side was turned to Rommel. **"Three, eyes on. If you got a visual of anything going on down there, let me know." **It really didn't matter that much, he decided. He just wanted to make it seem as though he thought what was going on down there was actually important. Maybe somebody would spot something worth actually noting.

The sniper nodded at him, slipping a hand up to the macrobinoculars. He tapped a couple controls on it, and began to scan the ground level.

The Spook shook his head slowly, before realizing that Dominic was staring at him. **"What the Hell are you looking at?"**

**"You, boss."**

** "Well, quit doing that. It's irritating."**

** "What do you think?"**

Rommel scoffed, shaking his head wildly as he recoiled from the absurdity of the question. What did he _think?_ What was he _supposed_ to think about an enemy capital ship appearing out of nowhere and crashing in the middle of a city?

**"I think I'm more worried about the fact that something on that Super could be about to go critical. Power cores, engines, something like that. Blow us all up."**

** "More concerning than the idea that there **_**could**_** be more Covenant on the way to look for that Carrier?"**

** "That's right."**

Dom was looking him straight in the eye, as best as he could tell. Both of them had their visors polarized, but he could _feel_ the man's eyes locking with his. He was trying to get more information on what could be happening. Information Rommel lacked. Information that could only be obtained once they had their boots on the ground and could check it out for themselves.

**"You're not in the least concerned about what might be on that ship?"**

** "Space barnacles."**

That drew a snicker from everyone on the aircraft. Rommel felt accomplished. Making Campbell laugh was like having survived a stampede of raging Gueta; there were very few, if any, people who could say they had tried. There were fewer, still, who could say they had succeeded.

Dom looked up at Rommel again, and depolarized his visor. His green eyes and pale face seemed somewhat accusing, even though he wasn't saying anything out loud. He was very easily conveying what he wanted to; the fact that he had very little faith in Rommel's easy dismissals. Inwardly, he cursed the man for it. He never would back down when he could call a bluff.

**"Space barnacles?"**

Rommel nodded, crossing his arms over his broad chest. **"Barnacles. From space."**

** "... No shit."**

** "True story."**

Dom shook his head, staring down at the floor for a moment, before looking up and gazing at the ruin on the horizon. He seemed to be content with the fact that Rommel wasn't worried. That was good; it meant that he could get some time to think.

Although there wasn't much to actually think about. The situation had made itself perfectly clear. Though Rommel didn't know what he could _actually_ do, he knew what he was _going_ to do. When he hit the ground, he was going to interrogate whoever was in charge of the operation for all the information they had. Then he was going to open up that Supercarrier, and he was going to figure out what he could manage to find inside the thing.

Then he was going to go home and make a new cup of coffee, since his first cup had been completely ruined by this event. Damn aliens.

**"What about that gas?"**

The question caught Rommel off-guard. He looked toward Dom, but it wasn't him who had asked the question. He refocused his attention on Miller, the squad's demolitionist. **"What about what gas?"**

The Private First Class was a new addition to the squad, more or less. And now _he _was interrogating Rommel too. He'd only been up for a couple hours, and he already couldn't catch a break. **"They said there was some unidentified gas coming out of the ship. What do you think that's all about?"**

Rommel hesitated to answer. That was a good question, and he couldn't think up a smart-ass remark fast enough to answer. He let his head fall against the bulkhead of the aircraft with a reverberating thud. **"Pilot? How much time we got left 'til we're on the ground?"**

_**"ETA five mikes."**_

**"God..."**He was tired of people asking him questions.

A silence passed for all of about thirty seconds. **"You never did answer my question."**

** "I noticed." **He paused, swearing again. **"Well, fuck, when's the last time **_**you**_** checked up on what kinds of gases were inside a Covvie ship? When's the last time you took a stride through a Supercarrier, rook?"**

** "You took us all on a ride in one about five years ago," **Dom piped up.

**"I wasn't talking to you, shithead. Well, rook?"** Actually, being fair, Dom was right. With the assistance of a Smart AI, he'd actually managed to take over a Supercarrier. He'd proceeded to use the weapons against the fleet he'd hijacked it from, and used the ship as a battering ram. He'd set it on a full-speed course for the fleet's capital ship, then retreated in an Orbital Insertion Pod. _That _had been fun, if not a bit uncomfortable. Still, his plan had worked.

Miller didn't answer the question.

**"Let it go, kid," **Campbell chimed. **"If there's one thing you learn from being with this guy, it's that he's a real bitch, and there's no winning any argument with him."**

Rommel nodded. He was content with that statement.

_**"ETA one mike. Looking for a suitable L-Z."**_

**"'Bout time," **said Findish. **"There's a few lights down there. Police and Special Forces vehicles. There's a clear spot along the center of the main drag there, just forward of the ****perimeter."**

As the transverse-rotor vehicle came in for a landing, Rommel constantly had to remind himself how surprised he was by the fact that the vehicle could actually come to a smooth stop. All five members of Ion Six-Two bailed out of the aircraft quickly, weapons ready in the event of any possible trouble in the welcoming committee. Rommel was the last out, but quickly took point. He shouldered his suppressed MA2B carbine, looking out over the horizon.

Fast approaching was a pair of men wearing the traditional law enforcement gear of the era. They weren't _nearly_ as heavy duty as actual military gear, but there was a reason for that: Cops usually didn't have to worry about whether or not their gear could stop a plasma round. So they wore their kevlar vests, and their helmets with shiny orange plexiglass visors. It was amusing how little their gear had changed over the centuries. At least, the first one was wearing the helmet anyway.

The second one, however, was wearing no headgear other than a somewhat old-fashioned radio headset. He also was wearing an overcoat, which had several different patches and identifications on it that amounted to the same thing: He was a police force Captain, and undoubtedly the person in charge of the operations in the area.

Judging by the look on his face, he was not happy.

**"Not every day ONI sends out a Spook to check out something,"** said the Captain.

Rommel shrugged. Inwardly he was already impatient; he knew where _this_ old routine was heading. Nobody trusted ONI. Even if he _hadn't_ informed the man of who he was yet. Command must've informed... Whoever this guy was, that they were sending him. **"Not every day a Covvie Super decides to make a low-atmo entry and ram its nose into the ground,"**he replied in a practiced, businessman-like tone. Apparently it worked well enough, because the Captain turned his attention toward the structure behind him: the Supercarrier.

The sheer size of these things never ceased to amaze him.

**"So what's the situation down here?"**

The Captain frowned, gesturing for the Senior to follow him. Rommel held up his hand to signal the squad to stay put, following cautiously.

**"Army's spread out all over the place, Fullmetal. They've blocked off all access to this area. Estimated civilian casualties are already in the thousands. In case you haven't noticed, we're in a business district."**

Rommel nodded, but said nothing. He was fully aware of the area, although having a gigantic ship crashed and burning in the middle of it was more than a little disorienting.

**"Evacuation's at about ten percent. It's slow. And it seems like the comms dead zone is increasing in range. We're setting up an official broadcast over the news that all citizens of New Poplava probably ought to consider temporarily relocating. But there's a rather interesting coincidence here..."**

The man stopped walking, and turned to face him. They were well out of earshot of anyone.

**"See that shit pouring out of the ship?" **he asked, gesturing toward the thick cloud of... Whatever it was. **"That hasn't let up at all. In fact, it's increasing. And it's filling up the Goddamn sky... And the dead zone stretches as far as that cloud does."**

**"Done any tests yet?"**

** "No. But whatever it is, it ain't good. We sent about a platoon's worth of Army troopers in there to check it out, through that big-ass hole up there. They've been out of contact for a while now."**

Rommel shrugged. **"For all it's worth, these Supers often got comms jammers built into 'em. That could be the cause of both your problems right now." **He glanced up at the ship. The storm was picking up, and the wind was intense. Visual range was piss poor, to say the least. He sighed, not quite sure what to say about the whole matter. **"Besides. That's a big ship," **he began, a sentence that would earn the title of Understatement of the Century undoubtedly. **"They could be exploring for ****hours and still not be fully done. Best settle in for a long run."**

** "That, Senior, is exactly what I fear,"** the Captain replied in return. Rommel noted briefly the man's name tag, which said "Powan." **"If they stay out of contact in there, there's no way to know whether or not they're dead or alive. But I guess by that point, if there's any Covvies left, they'll be on their way to see where they landed."**

That was a grim thought, but it was entirely true.

**"Well, Captain. I'll go tell the boys what's happenin', we'll get somethin' worked out."**

With that, Rommel- now bored out of his mind- strolled back to his squad. **"What's up?"** asked Campbell.

The Spook shrugged. **"Got some Dogs in there scopin' it out. Really isn't a job suited to the Army, but they're already in there. But we're well within the dead zone. Don't expect long-range comms to work." **He sighed, though now he was entirely aware that he'd done that far too many times today. **"Might as well settle in. Doesn't look like there's much fer us here past waitin'."**


	3. First Contact

_"WHAT. ARE. THEY? WHAT THE __FUCK__ ARE THEY? THE FUCKING THINGS REGISTERED AS __FRIENDLIES__ ON THE IFFS! THOSE WERE __NOT__ FRIENDLIES!"_

The next half hour or so seemed to be a waste of time, just waiting for something, anything to happen.

A storefront building was deemed stable enough to be used as a command post. Half the stuff in it was broken anyway, or not really worth any value. Hell, all they had in the window was a bunch of old t-shirts with not-so-catchy slogans on them. Half of them had burned up at some point or another anyway, and what hadn't burned up was blown away, given the fact that the window was completely shattered.

Rommel himself was sitting on the ledge of the display window area. He'd kicked one leg up over the ledge, and left the other one freely swinging. He'd taken his helmet off a while ago, and left it facing out the window. He himself was turned to face out the window toward the Supercarrier, though his eyes were closed at the moment. He was _almost_ at the verge of falling asleep, but he hadn't quite yet. He had one of his Sweet Williams cigars popped into his mouth, and lit.

Some people found them repulsive. He liked the sweet aroma. Especially in comparison to that _nasty_ stink that was coming out of the Super.

The Captain said it was that smoke coming out of the Super. He said it might have been part of some form of septic system running through the ship, and now it was burning. That'd explain both the organics and the smell, he supposed. He was willing to concede that point to the man easily enough, given that fact. For this reason, he almost pitied most of those Army boys and policemen. ODSTs at least had filters in their helmets that kept that sort of stuff out.

The Spook sighed as he tipped off some of the ashes on the cigar, then looked down at it. He quickly realized that he'd smoked the thing down to the filter. He growled quietly at it, then flung it out the window. He crossed his arms slowly, closing his eyes again.

**"That's littering, y'know," **echoed a voice from somewhere off to his side. **"I can fine you for that."**

Rommel shrugged. **"I blame the Covenant."**

**"Whatever."**

He heard a chuckle from Miller. **"At least we don't have to put up with the smell anymore. I **_**hate**_** those things."**

** "Fuck off,"** Rommel snapped. He had his reasons. He hadn't started up with smoking the things until about five years ago. He'd had plenty of alcohol prior to it, but never had he smoked. Now he was hooked on the things. It was part of a way of coping, in reality. At least they kept him relaxed.

**"You know that's what you tell him every time he says anything?"** asked Almec, a bit chidingly.

**"And that's what I'm gonna **_**keep**_** tellin' him." **

He looked toward Dom, his eyes letting the man know quite clearly that he _knew_ the reason why Rommel had picked up the habit. When he did so, Dom looked away cautiously. He knew better than to press the issue, too.

Captain Powan suddenly appeared in the doorway. He had his hand pressed against the side of his head, blocking out all the noise. Rommel could hear words coming in through his headset, though he couldn't make out what the words were. He sniffed the air briefly, furrowing his brows and frowning. He glanced Rommel's way instantly, since that was where all the smoke was coming from. Rather than argue, Rommel just shrugged.

He blew through the room and past Rommel, straight out the door. In the process of passing, Rommel could hear his microphone for just a second.

_"- trackers picking up movement. Unconfirmed whether hos-"_

That was all Rommel needed to hear, however. He picked up his helmet and put it on briefly, sealing it and polarizing the visor. He picked up his MA2B again, which he'd left leaning against the window. He jumped to his feet, and was immediately in full stride. He spared only a second in gesturing the rest of Ion after him.

He wasn't sure which he ought to be more concerned with: The fact that someone on the radio was announcing that they were picking up movement on their motion trackers, or the fact that the radios were suddenly up and running again.

**"Hey, Senior?"**

** "What is it, Four?"**

Miller hesitated. When Rommel referred to people by their squad position, that meant he was all business- And was _not_ in the mood for stupid questions or friendly remarks.

**"Weren't the radios out just a minute ago?"**

** "Affirmative. That means somebody just flipped a switch- And it means something big's about to happen."**

By the time Rommel made it to where the Police Captain was standing, he suddenly became aware of all the UNSC Army units in various positions that he hadn't seen them at before. As he came nearer, he also became aware of all the sandbags and metallic barriers that had been set up, as well as the machine guns in position behind them. Nothing said _"Welcome to our Planet" _quite like six hundred 7.62x51mm NATO rounds heading at you per every minute.

Rommel looked toward Powan. **"What's going on?"**

** "Comms're back up, but only for short-range. Motion trackers are pickin' up fifty plus footmobiles massing inside of that ship. IFFs are picking up a few of 'em as being our soldiers. We got a commtech up on one of the rooftops trying to contact the soldiers..."** he explained. Rommel _hated_ being left out of the loop and not knowing what was going on.

He held the microphone closer to his mouth, looking toward the roof of a storefront. **"Corporal, do we have a signal up there?"**

The words got lost in the wind, but Rommel heard well enough. _"Negative, sir. No units are responding."_

Rommel growled a little. He turned to face the rest of his squad. **"One and Two, deploy the two-forty-seven and wait for a signal. Three, I need you up on one of those rooftops. Four, you're with me. Get ready for contact. Engage on my signal."**

The Captain turned to face him. **"Senior, your men are **_**not**_** to engage without **_**my**_** permission."**

** "No, sir. Just doing some prior planning to prevent piss poor performance."**

** "... Was that a joke?"**

** "No, sir. It was the Six P's."**

The Captain gave him a look that was ice cold, as though he wasn't sure whether or not he was mocking him. Apparently the man cared little for alliteration, or he decided not to press the issue further. **"Lieutenant, what's the motion tracker say?"**

** "Getting larger, sir. They're just... Sitting there."**

** "Friendly or hostile?"**

** "Some identified friendly, others unconfirmed."**

** "Corporal?"**

** "Still no response. You got a preferred method of action? Unless we get a plan out there, then everyone's gonna open fire on sight."**

** "Alright, this is Captain Powan to all units. Unless the first thing outta the mouth of whoever steps outta that ship is "Friendlies," then you have permission to engage."**

Rommel heard a chorus of responses. He was forced to find the situation humorous in that the Police Captain was giving the Army orders. It was a well known fact that he used to be a First Lieutenant in the Marine Corps, however. He only stopped when he'd become too physically old to continue, though he was ripe for the Police Force. As such, no one really objected.

Rommel himself got down on one knee- vaguely aware of the fact that he was sinking into the snow that had built up on the road since it was last plowed- and motioned for Miller to get ready. The man remained standing, but shouldered his weapon, an M7S Caseless.

Rommel switched the safety off, and flipped on the ammo counter. He was met with a blue LED readout that said seventy two. The gun was loaded with seventy two .390-caliber rounds, though it had the option to switch over to Shredder rounds. He hadn't brought any with him. The gun didn't have most of the modern conveniences built into it, but that was alright.

His targeting reticule blinked into existence in front of him, a large blue circle in his visor. If it lit up any color other than blue or green, he was going to shoot.

Not going trigger-happy was going to be hard, he was sure.

He aimed his rifle straight at the gaping hole in the side of the ship. There were plenty of places they could come from, but that one was the closest to everyone. It was also the most likely to have enemies pouring out of it, given the size of it. Unless they didn't care for that gas, either. In which case, they'd have to come streaming through another spot where there was severe structural damage. Which could potentially take a long time.

Just in case, Rommel made sure his VISR was on. Friendly forces lit up green. Enemies would light up red. Everything else lit up blue or yellow, depending on what it was.

Rommel was slightly alarmed that a lot of the gas was being highlighted in red. That would _severely_ hamper his aiming capabilities. But that also meant his VISR was on the fritz. There could have been other things wrong with it too. **"Four...?"**

** "Yeah, boss?"** the man asked. He sounded preoccupied, and somewhat confused.

**"You got VISR on?"** Rommel asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

**"Affirmative... You're seeing this too..?"**

Rommel didn't respond. His eyes widened at the prospect. VISR mode didn't _do_ that. Stuff like gas or smoke wasn't even _supposed _to _show up_ on VISR in any color than black or white. Somebody else muttered something about movement, or noise, or something. **"Stay frosty. Something's up."**

There was a loud, resounding thump all of a sudden, near the hole.

**"Prepare for engagement!"**

There was another. Rommel could feel his heart leap into his throat. **"We got a read on IFFs yet?"** he asked, half-shouting.

**"Negative, still says friendlies or mixed!"**

He said a bad word, but never took his eye off that hole. He thought he saw movement, but didn't fire yet. Nothing lit up, so he decided he was just seeing things. That was the worst of it. When something bad _could_ happen, one's mind tended to conjure all the ghosts, ghouls, and boogeymen that it could, trying to keep the user on their toes. All it did to him was make him fucking paranoid.

He took in a deep breath, exhaling it. He glanced at his ammunition again. He hadn't squeezed off a round accidentally, good.

**"Motion tracker says whatever's in there is moving!"**

_No shit. _Rommel took in a deep breath. Why weren't they-

A loud boom filled his ears an explosion rang out, and there was a bright light. A piece of the ship's hull went airborne, and tongues blue and red fire alike licked out at the sky for a moment. More smoke filled the area. More smoke highlighted _red._

Rommel fell flat on his ass from the shockwave, having only been on his knees.

What happened?

Had something critical in the ship gone off?

Had there been a _bomb?_

Did somebody else rig a-

**"Contacts!"**

Rommel clambered up to his feet slowly, and widened his eyes. He couldn't _see _what they were. He could only make out shapes through the damn smoke, or gas, or whatever this crap was. The first shape he laid his eyes on looked like it might have been an Elite. He could see the digitigrade legs, the elaborate shoulders, the elongated head, the tentacles on its arms...

Wait. The _tentacles on its arms?_

That wasn't right.

Alongside it was something that appeared to either be a small Brute, a tall Grunt, or a Human... Judging by its physiology, he guessed Human. Neither shot at each other, and neither seemed to even notice each other. Instead, they just lumbered forward. Their gait was a little strange, not... Natural.

And then out streamed a few more shapes.

And then more.

Soon enough, they were everywhere. Out of visual capabilities through the clouds of ominous crud, but definitely there. They were stepping forward as one, almost all seeming to move at the same time, in the same way... It just wasn't _right._

Nobody fired, because they weren't showing any signs of hostility.

The first thing that stepped through the smoke and became visible showed up green. Judging by the tan armor it was wearing, it was definitely one of the Army men... At one point in time.

Someone nearby screamed.

The not-Human raised its arms into the sky, and let out a not-Human's roar.


	4. Does It Bite?

_"... Maybe that's the keyword. "Were." Whatever they were before, they're not now. And they're everywhere now. I don't know what it is we're looking at, but it's not good. It's downright awful. And whatever it is, the Covenant can only wish they were as bad as this."_

The not-Human thing stood there a moment longer, continuing its ear-splitting, not-Human roar.

Its physique was... Odd, at best. Terrifying at worst. The thing had a body that clearly marked it as being Human, but the tone of the skin suggested that whoever it had been was now _decaying_, rotting internally, yet somehow still alive. There was a very Human-looking head that sat upon the shoulders, sort of. The head seemed... Pushed back, as though whoever it was had been on the receiving end of a very thorough neck snapping. The look on the thing's face was one of _pain._ There was no better word for it. Rommel almost wished that whoever it was had been wearing a helmet, because there were plenty more gruesome details.

The thing's rotting flesh had decayed so thoroughly in some areas that it was downright falling off, bits of muscle and sloppy-looking blood draining visibly through the gaps. Black hair was visible on top of the thing's head, matted in some areas, falling out in other areas where the scalp had fallen apart. Its eyes were wide open, revealing murky green hues. The mouth of the thing was spewing the same smoke crap that was coming out of the ship.

None of that bothered Rommel so much, however, as the fact that the man's once-tan armor, now coated with that same sloppy-looking crap that was leaking out of him, had a big hole punched clean through the center of it. Three tentacle-like objects appeared to be protruding from the hole, where there was _something_ attached to them- Inside the man's chest cavity, up near where his neck should have been.

Nobody fired as it as it continued its loud screech.

It paused, then sauntered forward with a slow, deliberate lumbering gait. Its legs moved as an infant might, not quite sure how to use them correctly yet, though with all the nature of a practiced hunter moving in on potential prey. The arms of the thing that used to be a man swung back and forth, uncontrolled by whatever the force was that willed him forward.

The thing made it to within twenty feet of the front line. By that point, whispers were breaking out. Nobody knew whether or not to shoot the thing. It wasn't acting entirely hostile. The roar it had let out earlier made it seem hostile, yet it hadn't exactly shown any intent to attack. It seemed... Exploring, curious.

Or scoping out the area, looking to see what it was up against.

A gasp broke out from somewhere to Rommel's left.

**"Oh my God..." **the same voice continued. **"It's... It's... It's James! James fucking Keller!"** As though on cue, the inhuman creature swung in the man's direction. The eyes of the head that hung loosely on the thing's shoulders rolled in their sockets, and the mouth _moved. _It made no words, instead only strange gurgling sounds. But Rommel was fluent in plenty of different languages, including body language and a little bit of lip reading.

The poor soul was either saying _"Help me,"_ or he was saying _"Kill me."_

**"Don't worry James..."** the man continued, slowly pressing toward... "James." He was really unsure that this was a wise decision, but the thing hadn't shown any hostile intent so far. **"James... What the Hell happened to you, man?"**

The thing took a step forward towards the soldier who was asking questions. Rommel's gun remained focused on James Keller, if that was his actual name. At the same time, his eyes darted briefly toward the moron who seemed to think that his old buddy was in speaking conditions, between the fact that his neck looked snapped and there was a hole where his neck should've started that had _something else _jutting out of it.

The man took a few steps forward toward Keller, slowly lowering his gun. **"I really wouldn't do that, soldier..." **Rommel announced loudly. Ten feet. The man ignored his advice, and continued to walk toward the thing, making reassuring remarks and asking questions. At six feet, the thing began to walk toward him, too. It raised its arms up, walking in the fashion of a Frankenstein monster or an old-fashioned zombie.

Either way, Rommel doubted it was looking for a hug.

The man slung his rifle over his shoulder, and looked at the stalks protruding from the thing's neck. **"Oh my God..."** he muttered. He reached out toward one of the feathery tips, as though to touch it.

**"Don't you **_**dare**_** touch that thing, trooper!" **Rommel roared. **"You have **_**NO**_** idea what it is!"**

** "It's alright, sir!" **the soldier yelled. **"He's... He's my friend!"**

** "Private Dansen, do **_**not**_** touch Corporal Keller."** Rommel didn't identify the voice, but he assumed it was First Battalion's commander. He had no idea as to what the man's name or rank was. Either way, the man- Private Dansen- didn't listen. He reached out, and brushed one of the stalks.

It reacted violently, recoiling backward. Keller's body visibly writhed, as though he was beginning to have a seizure. And then the corpse-like man gave out another loud roar- At the same time, its arm cocked back, and it flung said arm forward in what looked like a slap. Its hand made contact with the area between Dansen's neck and head.

There was a sickening snap, and the Private fell to the ground. In turn, it snatched up the man's MA5B, and ran straight for the nearest thing it saw- Which happened to be Rommel.

He swore under his breath, and dropped prone. Even as he did so he was pulling the trigger as he centered his sights on... Whatever the _Hell _he was looking at. The thing pulsed off a few rounds from the MA5B- shockingly, with _one hand-_ but they went wide. Rommel's rounds were center mass. The thing dropped, hard.

And as it did, the noise started up. A chorus of inhuman wails, originating from the seemingly undead monsters standing atop the ship. But by that point the horde of strange creatures were streaming out of the ship in full force, rushing straight for the first line of troops... With seemingly no regard or care for the fact that they'd be gunned down instantly.

As the wave came through the thick veil of smog, things got even worse.

There were many more non-Humans, all of them in similar states. They were in the front lines of the horde, apparently just having been the first things to step out of the ship. But there were more, oh so many more... And they were _not_ the non-Humans in any way.

The Sangheili creature that Rommel had seen was a non-Elite. The thing's natural physiology seemed to have met a similar fate as the non-Humans. Their heads were pushed backwards, forwards, or remained in place- And he realized some didn't even _have_ heads- their flesh decayed. Most of them no longer had most of their armor, wearing shoulder pauldrons, bits and pieces, or otherwise useless parts. Stalks emerged from their chests, their necks, and in a few somewhat horrifying cases, the stalks were growing out of their _mouths_, their mandibles exploded and their faces deformed to accommodate the strange tentacles.

Some of their arms were snapped at odd angles, seemingly repaired of their own accord. Larger tentacle-like appendages, seemingly unrelated to the first, jutted out from their wrists, some of them with hands adapted to the cause, others with elongated fingers, others with _missing limbs._

**"**_**Gun 'em down! Every last fuckin' one of 'em!**_**"**

A pair of not-quite-Elite things ran straight at Rommel in a pair, and he swung his rifle at the things and shot for the first thing in his line of sight. The first one's legs flared as its _apparently still active_ energy shields caught the rounds. But they were Elite Minors at one point, unfortunately for them. Their shields were already the weakest available; their degraded armor just made it even weaker, apparently.

As his rounds tore through shields and armor, the thing's leg literally _disintegrated _where the rounds made impact, and the thing hit the ground hard. Rommel swung his aim at the second one, and emptied more than a few rounds into its stomach. Much to his shock and horror, the fucker's stomach _erupted_ where the rounds made contact, and a fist-sized hole went straight through one end and out the other.

The fucker still came running at him, as though he had completely _missed. _He knew that living creatures could take a blow from a high caliber weapon and keep coming for a few more seconds... But they usually _dropped, _and _hard._ These things were _not_ dropping.

He shifted his aim upward, drilling the creature with a hailstorm of bullets directly in the chest, where those damn stalks were coming from. There was a somewhat loud pop, and green goop _exploded _out of the chest cavity, all over the ground. The body slumped over and hit the ground hard.

_Finally._

** "Senior! What the fuck are these things?"** he heard Miller exclaim from behind him, emptying his M7S into the enemy with vigor.

Rommel realized, not for the first time in his life, that he realized he had no idea what he was looking at. All he knew was that they had no friendly intentions, and that they didn't seem to _care _when he emptied rounds that could drop a bear right into their guts.

Given the fact that he had drilled a hole straight through the one, he also decided to tack on that he knew they _didn't have guts_ to that list.

**"No idea, Private! Just keep hittin' 'em!"**

Suddenly Rommel became aware of a more erratic movement. He looked toward the source, and suddenly realized what he was looking at. He'd completely forgotten about the one he'd dismembered, and it was now skittering across the ground like some sort of fucked-up crab monster in an attempt to keep attacking him.

_These things have no sense of self-preservation... Or pain..._

He shot the thing continually. It took a while, but eventually the body collapsed, and the thing died... Or at least, he was pretty sure it was dead.

He wasn't entirely sure he _cared_ anymore.

**_"Senior, there's something else, pouring out of the- sh- loo-"_**

**"Say again, Three! Signal's breakin' up!"**

** _"-ook at- the ex- some kind-"_**

**"_Fuck!_"**Rommel exclaimed. He got the gist of it, but really wished he could've gotten a clear signal. This really bothered him. They were just getting crystal clear signals a couple minutes ago. Had these things _purposely_ unjammed the radio, to lure them in? _No. _They couldn't have. The things weren't even smart enough to move out of the way of constant fire from a Goddamn machine gun. There was no way they were intelligent enough to realize how to work a communications jammer. No way in Hell.

There was something else happening, something he wasn't realizing. He wasn't sure what it was, but by God, it was happening.

He looked up, toward the exit port that had been blown out of the side of the ship.

His eyes widened, and he just about dropped his guns.

Tens... Hundreds... Maybe even _thousands _of creatures were flowing from the hull. Not like these big, lumbering _morons_ that kept running at them with the apparent _intention _of being killed.

They were like spiders.

Spiders the size of a man's torso.

But they were more complicated than that. Their body- If it was even a body- looked like a balloon, of a sac. It had weird, vein-like patterns all over it, and seemed to have a pulsating, sickly-green light coming from within it. Green pustules were visible all over the things. They seemed to crawl along on short tendrils... With a trio of stalks jutting out from what he assumed to be the front of them, which ended in feather-like tips.

They were _swarming. _All heading toward the line, with the same mentality as those drones.

Rommel didn't have to double-guess this matter.

**"Don't let those fucking things get near you!" **he exclaimed as loudly as he could. His voice carried far, despite the fact that the gunfire should've drowned it out. But between using his radio as a megaphone and his naturally loud voice, he was able to get the word spread pretty easily.

The next few minutes were _total Hell._ Fending off against both maniacal creatures and giant fucking spiders that he could only assume what they might do was... Less than an ideal situation.

They were forced to keep giving ground. For every one they gunned down, another _twelve _seemed to emerge from the ship. Rommel didn't know how many troops a Supercarrier could hold by default, but given the numbers they were seeing as it was, they hadn't even seen a fraction of a percentage yet. This was bad, _really_ bad.

But the creatures weren't just rushing the line anymore.

For one thing, they seemed to have started figuring out how to use weapons. Plasma fire from various weapons, and the occasional Human-made projectile weapon, would open fire, causing some people to have to move just to avoid being fried. Some of the MG placements fell that way, too.

They also seemed to have figured out there were more troops on the roofs, and eventually... They just _jumped _up to the rooftops. Rommel couldn't tell what was happening from there, but it wasn't good. The shooting would stop, and the screaming would continue. The damn spidery things decided to crawl up walls and into buildings, too.

Overall, they made quite a statement: _We're infinite, and we will overpower you with sheer numbers, and we will spread out..._ What they _did_ once they were spread out was the question. Either way, it was overly clear that they had bigger fish to fry, and a military engagement wasn't entirely in their best interests.

Some people were shouting not to let them get away.

Others were shouting to hold position.

Others still were shouting to fall back.

Nobody seemed to have an idea as to what the best clear direction was. Some people were running for their lives, leaving positions unfilled and offering the enemy new ways to cut into the path. Those who chose to stay behind were either gunned down or killed outright by the brutal assault. Others still seemed to be getting killed by those bulbous creatures.

And as he noted out of the corner of his eye, some of the ones they'd _cut down _had the spider-things taking interest in them- And they _crawled into _the cavity in their chest. The body would seizure for a moment, then _stand back up _and _keep coming._

**"Lead, we can't hold 'em back forever!" **Miller shouted behind him. He hosed down another group of the spider-things with lead, causing some to fall over, others to deflate, and some to flat-out _pop._

Rommel had arrived at that conclusion a while ago. He was just trying to figure out whether or not his _team _would hear him if he sent that over the radio. It was better now than never, he supposed. He put a hand to the side of his head. **"This is Fullmetal to all units! Emergency Order Omega Three! There's too many of 'em, and we can't hold 'em off from here! Ion, if you are receiving, try contacting our bird- Tell him to get his ass into a position where he can pick us up!" **

Omega Three was an Emergency Order that most soldiers had a thorough fear for. Its meaning was simple: All units in the area needed to break off and run, or else they would die.

This seemed a very fitting situation for the application of the code.

** _"Cop- etal- ling- ack."_**

That'd have to be good enough.

The Spook fired the last few rounds in his magazine, cutting down another round of the seemingly endless horde. **"Four, keep up! On me! Toss 'em if you got 'em!" **He ripped a fragmentation grenade off his belt even as he spoke, hitting the primer switch on it without really being sure of where he wanted the thing to go. He spent only a second in deciding to just bowl the thing into the nearest group of assholes coming after him.

Not bothering to wait and see how many parts and pieces would be made by it, Rommel spun himself around, giving Miller a helpful shove in the right direction. The two proceeded to sprint down the street, hoping to whatever God there may have been that the covering fire provided by any remaining units would be good enough.

But where were they going?

Where would they run _to?_

They couldn't just keep running down the street. These... _Things_ would just keep after them. And given the fact that he'd seen them jump onto buildings in a single bound, take bullets without flinching, and get torn apart without caring?

He was pretty sure they had the stamina to run after them as long as necessary, and without tiring out. Rommel's eyes darted about, looking for a suitable area. They needed something that they could use as an E-Z.

Somewhere preferably tall, away from the ground, so that these things couldn't easily get to them, and so that the Falcon could pick up the squad easily... There were skyscrapers all around, but it wouldn't do any good to just choose one at random. They needed something easily defensible if it came down to that line. Which, unfortunately, he was sure that it would.

Speaking of defense. Where were the mobile and armored companies? According to the brief situational report he'd heard earlier, there were supposed to be Warthogs and tanks here. He was definitely _not_ seeing either of the above.

_Boom!_

Speak of the devil.

A pair of M808B Main Battle Tanks rolled around the corner, aiming their cannons directly down the street. They almost seemed to hesitate in firing, most likely because their drivers were not accustomed to seeing such odd, frenzied creatures running at the enemy in a straight line without any rhyme or reason.

Rommel grinned wickedly, however, as their cannons corrected themselves, and demolished another group of the things. Then he remembered something.

**"This is Fullmetal to Ion. Ember Tower's nearby, can any units get to it, over?"**

_**"- ffirmat- en rou- pilot, ove-"**_

**"Repeat that last part again, Two?"**

_**"Status- the pilot?"**_

**"Ain't heard shit from Foxtrot-180," **he replied. **"Will try contacting when we get to the Tower."**

_**"-opy that. Ou-"**_

Upon reaching the corner, Rommel darted right. The roads here were pretty clear, they'd managed to get out of the thick of it. The tower was just around the bend of the street, and to the left... As long as the damn thing was still _there_, anyway. Lord only knew what buildings were still standing, or for that matter stable.

But there it was. He could see it.

The Ember Tower was essentially the office building of a major industry in the area. The industry did a lot of transporting goods, mainly on-planet, but some off-world activity wasn't uncommon. It was seven stories tall, and sported its own landing pad in case there was a need for emergency helicopters to come in for any reason.

Alien space zombie things sounded like a good enough reason to him.

Rommel looked only over his shoulder once as he ran to the building. When he did, he was met with the less-than-reassuring sight of about fifty of the drones appearing out of nowhere, and completely _demolishing_ the tank. They punched holes _clean_ through the ceramic-titanium armor. The last he saw of the tank he was looking at was a bright orange explosion.

**"Hey, boss...?" **Miller asked, between huffs of breath.

**"Yes, Miller," **Rommel replied, **"That just **_**fucking happened."**_


	5. Awaiting Pickup

_"When I first saw that thing, I wasn't sure what to think. Was I supposed to shoot? Was it... Friendly? Could it have possibly been useful to us? Was that a person? Did it think? Did it feel? Did it __matter?__ None of these things matter now. First question answered itself. The others are now moot points. But, with Bloody Arrow being declared, I'm frankly a bit more interested in... How the Hell are we going to get out of here? Which brings the point as to why I'm wasting time writing in this stupid book instead of making a plan."_

Getting to Ember Tower had been more of a hassle than Rommel had expected to have to deal with, but it ended up being manageable in the end. Despite the fact that he had to _run_ the whole way there, he was pretty pleased with the fact that he hadn't had to actually shoot anything along the way.

Granted, buildings that were structurally unstable or had been demolished by the crash had ended up filling the main street that led to the place with _rubble,_ so that had been an inconvenience. Half the other buildings were burning, so he couldn't traverse through them easily. So that left either back alleys, which he wasn't comfortable in taking now due to the idea of alien zombies or giant fucking spiders leaping out at him, or climbing over the rubble, which wasted valuable time time and effort, could've been even _less_ stable than buildings, and was probably too hot to even attempt climbing over.

So, he and Miller pretty much agreed that the best choice was to take the alleyways.

It ended up being safe, but Rommel had nearly fired into a few stray cats, mice, and squirrels on the way there.

_Nearly. _He was pretty good about keeping his fire in check. He didn't like killing animals. They didn't hate, so he had no reason to hate them. During his down time- And during his childhood- he'd gone hunting on a couple occasions. He'd even brought down a bear once. But that was different in his opinion. He had no quarrels with killing something that was going to try tearing his face off.

After having encountered the Yanme'e, he had no problems killing bugs at all. He hated those things, for sure, and his mind commonly associated them as just being giant insects. And now, with those creepy spider-jellyfish things running around, he decided quite officially that he hated anything that even _looked_ like a bug.

If he encountered one, he'd make sure to stomp their dead bodies like bugs, too.

As Rommel clambered up the last flight of stairs that led to the main doors, he glanced over his shoulder. He was looking for IFF signatures of either Dom, Campbell, or Findish. Campbell and Dom hadn't been that far from him when the fighting broke out... He'd been talking with them over the radio. He remembered they had been within his line of sight when the fight broke out. What had happened to them?

The idea made him cringe. He'd heard them after he'd started running, but he wondered whether that meant they'd broken off ahead of time, or if they were still in the thick of it back there.

The Spook in him told him to ignore it and press forward, but that wasn't the part of him that mattered. He was going to adhere to the idea that he _did need _to keep moving forward, and that he _couldn't _turn back. But it wasn't because of that paranoid, "Lone Wolf" bullshit that ONI and otherwise had tried to breed into him- It was because he just wasn't the type to turn his back on his friends.

He'd hope for the best for them, and try to keep in contact.

**"Dom, Campbell, Findish. Any of you guys within line of sight of the main entrance? Not pickin' up any tags. Will hold position if anyone's close by, over." **He didn't like the idea of sitting in front of the entrance, not at all. But it could be potentially beneficial if he did. He'd be able to provide covering fire to anyone coming in- And have another man in the event that he needed to defend the position sooner than expected, or if by some freak happening these things had gotten into the building before they would be entering.

He kept reminding himself of the fact that they could be anywhere if they could leap up over the side of a three story building effortlessly.

_**"Three here... Negative on that, Fullmetal... Will take..."**_There was a break in the transmission. The man had _audibly _stopped breathing, but the sound of his SRS99C-S2 AM was heard sounding off loudly. He then exhaled audibly. _**"... A little while to get to the tower. Will attempt travel by rooftop, might be a few fire escape routes that can lead me up higher that way."**_

**"Copy that. Any word from One or Two?"**

_**"Negative, boss... By the way, when did the comms start working without being patchy again?"**_

Rommel frowned. That was a good question, and now it was downright bothering him. Either something was on the fritz, or somebody was messing with them. **"Could be the distance we just made from the Super. I don't like it, but I won't complain about open comms. Keep in touch, and let us know when you're in the tower. I'd rather not end up worrying whether or not it's you or a freak sitting that I hear shuffling around. Out."**

That said, he looked to Miller. **"Good news, Miller. At least Findish is still alive."**

Miller said nothing, most likely because he wasn't sure whether or not he cared for that idea. Findish and Miller had been... Less than buddies. Opposite sides of the spectrum, really. Though neither of them seemed to talk all that much, Miller said the things that people found useless, whereas Findish seemed to be the more useful so far. Miller went in loud and was trained to blow everything up without any regard for what he damaged in the process; Findish was trained to be silent, pick off the enemy from afar with pinpoint precision.

Rommel probably could've found more things to compare, but given the circumstances, he was content with that.

As he made his way to the door, Rommel felt himself wondering what he might find on the other side. He paused, then realized that the doors were double-paned glass. Which meant he could see right through them. Which meant he didn't _have_ to wonder what was on the other side, because it was all visible.

He shook his head, chuckling lightly, and peered in. VISR wasn't picking up any contacts, and neither were his eyes. He'd long since realized that he couldn't trust technology alone. An electromagnetic pulse could knock out _everything_, which would leave him high and dry when it came to tech. Then he'd essentially be nothing more than a knight in less-than-shining armor with a high-power rifle. And all the things stuck to his armor by magnets would fall off, meaning he'd be short about a ton's worth of ammunition and equipment, and he sure as Hell wouldn't be able to find a new place to put any secondary gun he might be carrying.

He wrapped his hand around the door's handle, and pulled. He frowned when he was met with resistance. He tried the other door, but it, too wouldn't move.

**"Oh, great,"** Miller said behind him. **"So our E-Z's got a lock on it."**

** "Shut up, Miller. It's not locked."**

**"Seemed pretty locked to me..."**

Rommel took about seven steps back, and raised his MA2B. He pulled the trigger while moving the gun in a circular pattern, and the glass completely shattered. He'd basically shot enough of it out to where it was just the door frame left, with a few shards here and there. **"See? I found a key."**

** "You're not in the **_**least**_** concerned that they'll come in chasing after us now?" **Miller asked, his voice largely accusing. Rommel began to wonder where the concept of not questioning a superior's orders had gone, though he wasn't enough of a jackass to mention it.

Instead, he gestured out toward the street, toward the rubble. **"I don't see them right on our heels, so I'm not that worried about them knowing where we are,"** he said casually. **"And that one snapped a guy's neck by giving him the unholiest bitch-slap I've ever seen. I kinda doubt a glass door would fare much better."**

Without waiting for a response, Rommel gestured toward the door. **"We'll sweep the area and see if the elevator's still operational. Then we'll head to the top floor. After you?"**

** "This is crazy..." **Miller said, shaking his head. Despite that, he raised his submachine gun and stepped towards the door. He hesitated, then stepped through the threshold that was the door frame. He was careful not to step on any shards of glass, not that it mattered. Rommel had filled the thing with lead, so it was too late for stealth. The shards wouldn't penetrate his shoes, either. Armored boots were kind of hard to pierce.

The man swung his gun left first, then to the right. Finally, he looked up, towards the ceiling, just in case. He looked back towards Rommel, holding his hand up and signaling him that it was clear to push forward.

Rommel stepped into the room, not even taking the precautions Miller did. He swung his gun upward only after he was beside the man, and even then only at waist-height rather than up to his shoulder. So, they were in. Easy enough. Now came the next step, finding either a staircase, elevator, access hatch, ladder, or some other means of escalation to the top of the building.

He began to access his VISR system's other abilities, more accurately, the digital mapping system. The thing could detect where friends or hostiles were if satellite coverage was in the area. If not, it still made for a damn good map.

The VISR zeroed in on their general region. Rommel blinked twice at the district, then again at the street, and once more at the building. Very specific building blueprint was pulled up, showing the varying points of interest to him.

According to this, they were in the main lobby. There reception desk would be directly ahead of them, and there would be four hallways. Two of them would have an elevator at the end of them, as well as emergency stairways. Rommel wasn't sure which he wanted to take. Elevators were more convenient, but after having been in several that broke down while he was riding the damn things, he wasn't sure he trusted them anymore.

Rommel closed out the map, and looked about the room. The reception desk was directly across the room from him.

To the right and left sides of the desk were double-doors, both of which would lead down halls that had varying types of rooms branching off them. At the end of either or, there would be both stairs and an elevator. There were also doors marked _"Stairs- Use In Case of Emergency"_ on either side of the room, along the walls. They were conveniently blended in with luxurious-looking furniture that was around them.

Luggage, food, beverages, and other things still littered this room. Undoubtedly they belong to the people working here or stopping in for whatever reasons, who had been forced to leave them behind when the Army came in to evacuate them.

The contrast was eery, given the quaintness of the room compared to the _total Hell_ outside.

**"So. Are we gonna take those stairs, or is there some elevator nearby you want to take your chances with?"** Miller asked impatiently. Miller was a rookie. He probably hadn't been in enough situations that realizing taking the elevator was generally an open invitation for havoc to take its toll. He'd been roasted alive, flooded, dropped about thirty floors, engaged in hand to hand combat, or had to fight off countless hostiles at once during various occasions, sometimes multiple times, throughout his time spent in the UNSC- And moreover, ONI- while dealing with elevators.

**"We'll take the stairs,"** he said after a moment's hesitation. **"Less shit can go wrong with stairs than elevators, and at least we got a fallback if we need to."**

Miller seemed about to say something, but instead just grunted. He seemed to have a problem with Rommel. Understandable. Most people didn't take well to having been ripped out of the front lines to be assigned to some Spook. Rommel wasn't like most ONI operatives, though. Most were paranoid degenerates who couldn't handle a gun if their life depended on it. Rommel himself knew _why_ he wasn't like them. He'd spent time in the Marine Corps before having moved on to other units, which eventually had landed him in ONI.

So, as far as he was concerned, he was, as he said: _"The least Spookiest Spook there is in the whole Office of Naval Intelligence, puns intended." _

Let him have his quarrels. It made no difference to him.

The Spook marched through the reception area, his ash and dirt caked boots making a mess of the royal red carpeting used all over the floor, and scuffing up the redwood floors. Given his path, it almost seemed he _meant_ to make a mess of the place. He had his reasons, however, and they were damn well good enough as far as he was concerned.

As he reached the staircase, he looked at the door. He lowered his rifle, looking at it briefly. Old-fashioned, handle-opened, hinged. Doors to most "official" buildings didn't operate this way anymore, but some had them for the sake of them being less noticeable. That was fine, as far as he was concerned. It just meant he got an opportunity to kick the things off their hinges.

So he raised up his foot, and delivered a snap-kick to the door.

The thing made a terrible noise as it ripped its locks out of the wall, sending chunks of wood flying and skittering across the ground, the door itself swinging back and slamming loudly into the concrete wall. Rommel spared only a moment to glance at the door, which had practically folded itself in half. It was one of those cheap doors, he realized. The kind that were made out of wood and cardboard, but mostly cardboard.

_Cheap bastards._

**"That door... Wasn't... Locked, was it?"** Miller chimed. Rommel couldn't tell if he was scrutinizing him or just curious.

**"Probably was. If it wasn't, it ain't now." **

**"... You just like breaking stuff, don't you?"**

Rommel glanced briefly over his shoulder, moving his rifle to hold it in both hands in a lowered position again. **"Four, from now on, do me a favor. **_**Stop asking useless questions.**_**"** With that, he stepped through the doorway.

He wasn't surprised to be met with dark. There was a light switch to his right, but there was a long list of reasons why flipping a switch in a building that one wasn't sure what lurked inside was a bad idea. Traps, for one. Unnecessarily alerting, for two- Not that he was particularly concerned about that, after having fired bullets into a glass door, crunching glass, stomping through the room, and kicking in a door- and for three, there was a good chance that turning on that light might just show the enemy the exact path they'd taken. A broken door would serve as an obvious enough hint, but someone with little intelligence might deduce that it was _too_ obvious.

Not that the train of thought really made sense anyway, since a light would make it even more so, but he liked to think that it made some remote form of sense somehow.

Besides. He had low-light vision.

**"Nocturnals on,"** he said quietly. He blinked twice at the lightbulb icon on his VISR, and suddenly everything appeared in a somewhat grainy, green color. With the VISR mode still on, friends, foes, and objects of interest would appear differently colored anyway. Everything was clear, as best as he could tell. Unless the freaky alien zombie things were going to start not appearing on VISR mode because it couldn't identify them.

He signaled Miller that the area was clear, then moved for the stairs on the left. They went upward, as opposed to the ones on the right, which went down into the sublevels of the building. Basement, storage, power generators, or whatever else there might be. He assumed there was probably access to the nearby parking garage as well.

The climb up the stairs was uneventful. He'd occasionally open up a door that branched off, checking to see if the various floors were clear, and to potentially throw off any would-be attackers if they did come. They were always clear. He didn't expect one of them to go bounding upward and throw itself through one of the many windows of the office areas and just happen to realize someone was in the stairwell. But he didn't expect to have to fight off alien zombie things that day, either.

Rommel's decision from that moment forward was to come to an area prepared for anything. Genocidal aliens, or undead genocidal aliens that turned people into more undead genocidal creatures.

He didn't want to stop and ponder the absurdity of that very concept.

Eventually he came to a door marked _"Roof Level," _where he hesitated again. Despite the fact that they'd come all this way, he didn't really want to imagine what might be waiting on the other side. Sights or otherwise. He was also dreading trying to get in contact with everyone again, since the comms channels seemed to be about as reliable to him that day as a horse and buggy might be for someone trying to get into Slipspace.

He checked over his shoulder. Miller was standing there, checking his M7S for an ammo count. He gave Rommel a nod to say that he was good to go in the event that there was something out on the roof that they'd have to gun down.

Rommel tried the door first, to see if this one _was_ locked. It was. Which meant he was putting his boots to good use today, and definitely making sure his door-kicking abilities were up to date.

The door swung open, revealing nothing other than the landing pad that Rommel had counted on being there. Lots of smoke and fires in the distance, but there weren't any walking horror-show creatures visible in the immediate vicinity. Times like this, Rommel wished they'd bothered to install motion trackers into the ODST armor's HUD.

He stepped out into the light, shutting off the low-light mode. He raised his rifle, swinging it to either side. Miller came in close behind him, swinging to whatever side Rommel wasn't covering. Rommel swung his rifle high, ensuring that there wasn't something on top of the box that was the top of the stairwell. There wasn't, much to his relief, but not to his surprise.

He also took a moment to look underneath the raised landing pad, to make sure nothing was hiding underneath it. There wasn't.

So he ascended the short ramp, standing on the helicopter landing pad.

He sat down on top of a small crate, gesturing to Miller to keep an eye out for anything happening. He wasn't going to look towards the city to see what was happening. Not just yet, anyway.

He put his hand to the side of his head again. **"Ion members One, Two, and Three, if you can hear this message, respond. That's an order, over,"** he said into the radio. He wasn't sure why he kept trying, the damn thing didn't seem to be working or even useful. If anything there was a larger chance that the enemy was tracking the signal.

He paused.

No response.

He sighed loudly, and noticed Miller looking over his shoulder towards him expectantly. He was waiting to see if anyone was going to respond. Listening intently, though trying not to be obvious about it. Rommel looked directly at the man, and shook his head. **"If anyone out there can hear me, Ion Lead and Four are at the E-Z, and will be calling in Foxtrot-180." **He paused again. He was hoping that it might draw some form of response.

Only the static came through.

**"I **_**hate**_** these fucking radios." **He was very honestly considering reaching into his helmet and ripping the things out. The damn comm jammer was on again. That was something that seriously needed to be taken care of, given the fact that it was seriously putting a damper on the whole _"Get as far away from the freakshow as possible" _plan. He could only assume what that meant as far as the part of his plan where he called in the escape bird.

**"Foxtrot-180, this is Fullmetal. Are you receiving this? Respond, over,"** he wearily said. There was more static. **"If you're flying around like a jackass looking for us, and you receive this somehow, we'll be popping green smoke at the top of Ember Tower. I repeat, we'll be at the top of Ember Tower, and we need immediate evac, over."** No response.

He sighed loudly. **"Well, Miller. We'll have to keep tryin' the comms 'til we find a second where they work worth a damn."**

**"In other words, we're screwed?"**

** "Right." **

Miller sighed loudly, lowering his rifle. He took off his helmet, and tossed it aside. Rommel heard it hit the ground with a loud thud, before rolling off the side of the landing pad and bouncing off out of sight somewhere. Rommel pulled a green smoke canister off his belt, tossing it up and down a couple times. He didn't look at Miller, instead opting to look out at the growing cloud of... Whatever the Hell it was. **"You know, you might want to keep that helmet. I dunno what that crap is, but I know I wouldn't want to breathe it in."**

Miller mumbled something that Rommel didn't hear, then jumped off the landing pad to go search for his helmet.

Rommel shrugged, hitting the primer on the smoke canister. He gave it a light toss, and watched as it hit the ground and rolled to the other side of the landing pad, before it was stopped by a crate. There was a brief hiss, then green smoke began to leak from the canister. It wasn't long before it began to fill the air, rapidly ascending towards the sky.

Rommel half wondered if it could be seen through that smog crap.

Over the course of the next ten minutes, he continued to check the radio, getting the same results every time: Jack shit.

Miller had returned with his helmet. He'd put his helmet back on as the smog grew nearer, at Rommel's urging. He was currently sitting on the landing pad, staring off into space. He occasionally made impatient or frustrated growls, but Rommel wasn't that worried. He'd been in worse situations, and with less to work with. Once the Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marines _properly_ mobilized, this would all go away.

Boy would this be a story to tell.

**"Hey, Rommel?"** Miller asked, his voice sounding thoughtful.

**"What is it, rook?"** He wasn't in the mood for more useless questions, or useless talk. If whatever the man said wasn't going to help them in their efforts to fight or escape, then it was useless.

**"What do you think those things are? They came out of the ship... And some of them looked like they had been Covenant." **His voice suggested he wasn't going to accept "fuck off" as an answer as he might have previously. For the sake of passing time, Rommel was willing to play along.

**"Some of 'em were Elites. I saw a couple that looked like Grunts, couple that looked like Jackals. Didn't see any buggers... No Brutes, but the Supercarrier was probably part of an Elite fleet," **he said quietly. That wasn't saying very much though. Even though they had seen a lot of hostiles flooding out of it, they hadn't even seen a fraction of what _could_ have been in there.

** "So... What happened to 'em?"**

Rommel scoffed. From his position of sitting arms crossed and leaning against the crate- a position he'd only recently adopted- he looked toward Miller. **"Do I look like a biologist? I specialize in killing living things, not studying them."** He looked away, towards his feet. He was silent for a few moments, then sighed. **"I dunno, they looked like they had some plant shit growin' on 'em. Maybe the Covenant got some insane fungus crap that turns 'em into Goddamn space zombies."**

** "Or space barnacles,"** Miller said. His voice was patronizing. Rommel lifted his right hand, and proceeded to issue a one-fingered salute in response. **"Hey, I was just joking."**

Rommel shook his head, then realized something...

There was the sound of engines off in the distance. Falcon engines.


	6. Friendly Fire

_"It's astounding to think... People we knew... People who we had just been working with... Gone, all gone. But I suppose they aren't quite gone, not yet. At any rate, I don't think anyone here wants to run into any __more__ familiar faces... Or kill them."_

The Falcon was fast approaching. That meant one thing, and one thing only: Salvation.

Soon enough, they would be out of the city. Back at the base. From there, they would be able to plan things out. Get refitted for a proper defense against these things. Submit intel on what they had found, figure out how to properly fight them, then light the bastards up like a forest full of dry leaves. That's all it would take. Getting back to base.

_Then_ they'd see who was laughing and who was retreating.

Miller stood up. The vehicle was in sight. He began to wave his arms back and forth wildly, trying to get its attention. Rommel couldn't understand _why,_ the thing would obviously see their smoke. For that same reason, he wasn't sure why he got up and joined him in trying to flag the Falcon down. It was illogical, but it was... A happy occasion.

He wished he knew where the rest of the squad was. That would've helped them greatly. He didn't _want_ to have to assume they were either missing or dead, but war was Hell. They weren't exactly at war with these things, but as far as he was concerned, it was on. They were killing people, and trying to kill his men. It was personal, which made it far worse than any war.

The Falcon began to grow nearer, and Rommel suddenly made a realization. The hatch of the cockpit was shattered. The pilot must have seen some pretty hot areas himself for that to have happened. But it made sense. Those things had gotten weapons, or already had them. They probably shot at him, but failed.

Rommel shrugged. No consequence.

The Falcon slowed down, hovering over the ledge of the building, still relatively high above... But not lowering. **"Foxtrot-180, it's **_**us!**_** Get yer ass down here, we ain't got time for this crap!"** At his command, the Falcon moved forward, but at the same height, above the landing pad. Rommel expected it to start lowering it any given second. The spotlights suddenly lit up brightly, despite being the middle of the day, highlighting them.

There was a loud, inhuman screech.

Seven different bodies leaped from the vehicle's troop bay, landing in a group in front of Rommel and Miller.

They were all in a state of... _Zombification,_ or whatever the Hell it was that had happened to them to make them this way.

There were two Elites. One was Ultra-class, the white armor made that clear. It had a Type-25 DER. A plasma rifle. This one's armor was mostly intact. Its head was split open wide, making way for the tentacles that sprawled from its mouth and eyes, as well as a few from its back. Green globs spewed from it, but he was less concerned with this one's appearance as opposed to the second.

The second was a gold-armored bastard. Figured, it had to be a Zealot... And it had an energy sword. The Zealot's armor was horribly deteriorated, it hardly had any left on at all. Just around the legs, and around its right arm, which held the sword. Its fingers were tentacles, wrapped around the sword _several _times. The left arm, however, was a sprawling mass of writhing tentacles, with several jutting out of the wrist area, and the hand being like the right, with the fingers transformed. Its head looked snapped backwards, hanging over its back. The tentacles protruded from a hole in its chest.

There were two Grunts, both armed with the traditional Type-25 EP, plasma pistol. One was a SpecOps unit, with black armor. The other was a Major, wearing red. The stubby hands of their left arm appeared as claws, which was odd. Their heads had actually been pushed _downward_, however, and upside down. Their flesh was sickly green, their armor completely destroyed apart from a few bits and pieces that hung on. The tentacles came from their necks.

Two more were Human. They had the same appearance as that of James Keller from earlier, or whatever the Hell his name was, as far as their mutations went. They both looked like police officers. Their kevlar vests definitely had not helped them, given the fact that there was a giant Goddamn hole in the center of them.

The last one, however, had been clinging to the back of the ship, unseen.

It appeared as a four-legged thing. It was like a scorpion without a tail, but instead with the abdomen of a spider, and with four legs, which ended in claws in the front, and with bird-like feet in the back. The head of the thing seemed to have no eyes, but had a scarab-like pincer- Or at least, he thought it was- which had those same damn feathery stalks protruding from its mouth. It was about a meter tall, and probably two meters long.

What concerned him more was the fact that the damn thing jumped clean over their heads, towards the stairwell they had exited. Rommel moved to fire his weapon at _it_ first, but it disappeared.

He spun back around, facing the mob of monsters. They all proceeded to open fire, forcing him them both to press back toward the stairwell for cover. **"Open fire, dammit, what're you waiting for?"** he shouted towards Miller, after having reached the safety of the stairwell. Or at least, theoretical safety. There was still the matter of the big creature that got away.

**"It's kind of hard to—" **Miller began, and fired a few rounds out through the doorway. **"When they're shooting back at **_**us—" **_He stopped to fire again. **"With better Goddamn weapons!"**

Rommel conceded the point, and put out a hailstorm of lead. He saw one of the Grunts get shredded in half by the rounds, vertically. Much to his surprise and relief, the two halves did not continue to drag themselves towards them, and nor did they make any visible attempt to fuse back together. So it seemed the trick to dismembering them was to do it in a way that more or less separated the torso. He wondered on the significance of that a little, but had no time to think about it yet.

The second Grunt fell apart like a loaf of bread in water. **"God damn, did you see that? He disintegrated!" **Miller called out. Rommel had noticed. These things didn't seem to have anything really holding them together. They were _rotting _like _corpses, _so he half-expected that.

The Elites took point- More accurately, the Zealot. The thing had its left arm pointed outward toward them, tentacles _writhing_. Its intentions were very clear. It wanted to grab them and stab them, just like that.

Rommel aimed at the thing's chest, pumping more lead. Unfortunately, the thing had predicted this. It held up its sword sideways to deflect them, and as the bullets made contact, they vaporized. He said a string of bad words in response, and immediately slammed the large, metallic door, and proceeded to backpedal towards the stairwell. If all else failed, they could always run like Hell down the stairs.

The door swung wide open, and that was when Rommel realized it. _He'd_ busted the door when he kicked it open. So by slamming it, he hadn't really accomplished anything.

The Zealot-zombie thing came running straight for Miller.

Despite both their combined efforts, the thing wasn't dying. It continued to come straight at them, though now it wasn't shielding itself. In the end, it wrapped its tentacles around Rommel, cocking its arm back to deliver the blow with the sword. Rommel tried his hardest to free himself from its crushing grip, but the damn thing was _strong_. It was lifting he, a man two meters tall and almost three hundred pounds of raw muscle, into the air with _no_ effort. **"I could use... A little... Help here!"**

It left itself open.

Bullets suddenly erupted through the thing's chest, leaving a wide open hole. Through it, Rommel could see Miller's submachine gun barrel. The thing slumped over, but its grip remained firm. **"Run, Miller! Get your ass outta here!"**

**"Not without you, boss!"**

**"Dammit, this isn't the time for heroics! Go, **_**now!**_**"**

Miller continued firing at the remaining creatures, but broke for the stairs in the end. Rommel wasn't sure where he was going, but he _was_ sure that he wasn't going to let these bastards come after him. Despite being entangled in the tentacle grip, the barrel of his MA2B was still free. That meant he could fire unhindered until he was out of ammunition, a fact that suited him just fine.

And if he ran out of ammunition? Oh well. He'd led a long, eventful life. The only thing he'd regret was not killing more alien scum. And when he got to Hell- Rommel wasn't religious, but Lord _knew_ that's where he was destined to go if there was such a thing- he'd kick all their asses a second time, and show the Devil himself who was running the show.

He rolled and shifted in place, and aimed at the next target: The Ultra-class Elite.

He pulled the trigger, and immediately was met with the sound of bullets meeting shields. **"C'mon, you bastard! Die for papa!" **The thing roared, then hit the ground hard when its legs came out from under it. It was cleaved in half horizontally, but that wasn't stopping it. It continued to drag itself after him. But that gave him a clear shot at its upper body, killing it.

Unfortunately, that _blocked_ him from getting a clear shot at the other two who were entering the room.

Rommel rolled around for a second, trying to free himself, or reach his knife, or something, _anything_ that could get him out of this FUBAR situation. He growled loudly, and partly cursed himself for having his knife strapped to his chest. If it was on his boot, he might have been able to maneuver himself to grab it and start cutting through this crap.

Finally the tentacles came loose a little. Rommel was able to point his rifle more upwards at least, which meant he could fire directly into center mass.

And when they came in through the door, he did.

And they dropped.

Rommel waited a moment longer, keeping his aim where it needed to be if anything else walked in. Apart from the sound of things off in the distance, Rommel heard nothing. Sighing loudly with relief that _that_ was over, he let his head fall back, his helmet making a loud, metallic thud as it made contact with the floor.

He was still alive.

Struggling for a moment longer, Rommel managed to untangle himself from the Zealot's tentacles after a while. It reminded him of the time he'd had to untie himself after he'd been taken captive by Insurrectionists. How long ago had that been? Forty years ago?

Damn. He was getting too old for this crap.

Standing up slowly, Rommel checked the ammo counter readout. It said he had twenty one rounds left. Great. Just enough for a Twenty-One Gun if necessary, depending on what had happened to his allies.

Taking a step toward the stairs, Rommel heard a loud _ding_ behind him, similar to a bell. He spun around and pulled the trigger, raining lead into the elevator door that had caused the noise.

**"Quit shooting, dammit, it's us!"** called a familiar voice.

Sure enough, out from the elevator came Dom, Campbell, and Findish. **"Bloody Hell, you've been busy up here, haven't you?" **Campbell asked.

Rommel nodded slowly.

**"Where's Miller?"**

** "I just told him to fall back. I was... Entangled in other affairs," **Rommel said, kicking the body of the Zealot with the toe of his boot. Part of it crumbled away, disgustingly enough. **"Why the Hell did you guys take the elevator? Ain't you learned that nothing good comes from taking the elevator? Ahh, forget it. One of you guys go get Miller, wouldja?"**

Campbell nodded, heading back toward the elevator. **"What'd I **_**just**_** get through telling you about elevators?"**

** "Well if he went down the stairs, this is the quickest way to get to the ground floor and-"**

** "Fuck it, just go get him." **Rommel wasn't even in the mood for it at the moment. Then he heard the sound of bullets slamming into the wall, bringing him back to reality. Heremembered something.**"Oh yeah, Falcon's outside, but, uh... He ain't gonna give us a ride."**

** "Why?"**

There was the sound of bullets being fired again, slamming hard into the side of the building. Twenty millimeter rounds, explosive. Dirt was kicked up all over the place, but Rommel stood unphased. The rounds were going wide, and the building was made out of concrete and steel, thick stuff. It'd punch through, sure. But he had time. He gestured towards the bodies of the two Human-things. **"Probably looks a lot like these fine, upstanding fellows. Anyway, we'll do something about it when Miller's up here. It'll help to have some Goddamn explosives to deal with the bastard." **

** "Roger that. So, those rounds being fired are..."**

** "From the Falcon, yes."**

Five minutes later, the group was assembled. **"Okay. We're gonna **_**try**_** and take the bird if we can. I figure Findish can either shoot the pilot in the head, or take out an engine if we can't take it. We can all fill it with lead if necessary, they got light armor. If all else fails, Miller, you can chuck something at it that'll make it disappear. Understood?"**

He got a chorus of affirmative responses. **"Alright, let's do this."**

He went through the door, and immediately there was another five-round burst, which he rolled to the side to avoid. He raised his rifle, aiming for the Falcon's autocannon first. **"Aim for the guns!" **he shouted. He pulled the trigger, but even as he did, the Falcon spun around to the side. The shots missed, narrowly, and the Falcon returned fire. Rommel dropped low to the ground, and the air conditioning unit behind him erupted as the rounds made impact.

**"SOMEBODY HIT THE FUCKER!" **Rommel shouted.

No sooner than he had, there was the sound of an M247 GPMG opening fire, as well as the SRS99 being carried by Findish. The Falcon weaved back and forth, but finally a few of the rounds struck home. The autocannon was smoking badly, and as the final round hit, it ripped the autocannon clean off the bottom of the vehicle.

The vehicle continued to weave back and forth, and only at that point did the pilot seem to realize that no rounds were being fired from the autocannon anymore. The Falcon came forward, slamming hard into the landing pad. A Human form _leaped_ from the broken canopy, straight for Findish. Everyone opened fire on it at the same time, resulting in the body more or less exploding in midair, raining rotten parts onto the entire squad.

Removing a large chunk of rotten flesh from his armor, Rommel chuckled a little. **"That went better than planned." **He looked toward the rest of the squad, grinning behind his visor.

**"Speak for yourself," **said Campbell, whose visor was completely coated in red slop. The man removed his helmet, and began to clear most of the goop from his visor. The grizzled face of the man was contorted in disgust, his brown eyes squinted in confusion as to what could be the cause for what he was looking at, the corners of his mouth pulled back in a grimace. Rommel could see the sweat on top of his bald head. He had probably had to travel farther than he and Miller had.

**"Could be worse," **Rommel said, moving forward toward the Falcon. As he did so, he removed his own helmet. **"You could be dead."**

He took a second to pop open the canopy, then aimed his rifle into the canopy. He wanted to make sure something else wasn't hiding in there. He then proceeded to swing back toward the troop bay. Empty. He checked the rear of the vehicle, too. Nothing. It was definitely clear.

**"Hey Rommel?" **Dom called. He looked back towards the squad, who were looking over the various bodies. He cocked a brow and waited for the next line. Dom motioned toward one of the bodies. **"Come check this out..."**

Rommel sighed. He _really _didn't want to go look at those things. The fact that he appeared to have his attention on one of the Human ones didn't help him, either.

Nonetheless, he stepped away from the Falcon, and trotted down the small flight of steps towards the squad. He began to realize that the area was seeming more silent than it had before. That wasn't a good sign, as far as he was concerned. The silence earlier had erupted into this crap.

He marched straight up to Dom, planted his heels together in the snow that was forming around them, now mixed with hues of reds, greens, purples, blues, and blacks, turned his rifle upside down so that the butt of it would be facing the ground, then slammed it hard against the ground. He leaned over it as though he was an old man using his cane to lean in closer to a quietly told story, and looked Almec in the eyes. **"What is it?"**

** "What was the Police Captain wearing when we last saw him?"** Dom asked with a cold edge to his voice that Rommel didn't care for.

** "An overcoat, a kevlar vest, and a hat I believe. Why, you got a hard-on for 'im?"**

** "Good thing I didn't,"** Almec responded, nodding toward the body. **"What's this guy got on?"**

Rommel didn't immediately look. He closed his eyes, and let his head swivel in the direction of the body. He opened them slowly, and saw what he honestly wished he hadn't seen. A long black coat and a now bullet-ridden kevlar vest, with the insignia of a Police Captain emblazoned across the sleeve, and the name "Powan" printed across a name tag- Now barely readable, given that it was soaked in blood.

He leaned in a little closer, despite his better judgment, and turned the head of the creature to look at him. What he saw was the features of the man he had been talking to not so long ago, though they were not his. They were contorted into a look of pain and anguish, his eyes bolted shut, his mouth stretched wide open. His last moments had been spent screaming, there was no doubt about it.

Rommel felt a shiver down his spine, and he stood up straight. He'd seen men tortured in horrible ways. He'd done his fair share of repaying the favor. He'd seen men get torn apart in unimaginable ways. He'd seen people stuff their intestines back into their bodies, and hold their arteries in their _teeth_ to try to keep from bleeding out.

Not _one_ of them had a look on their face that amounted to _that._

He looked away from the body, and held his weapon back up. **"We better go."**

Campbell seemed to be a bit ahead of him on that matter, already having gone to the Falcon. He was still trying to pull the grime off his helmet. **"You know, next time we go through a Hive full of Buggers, I'm going to repay you all with a face full of bugshit. Seriously. A handful for everyone."**

** "Man, don't you ever get tired of bitching?"** Almec asked.

**"Don't you ever get tired of-" **

There was a brief sound, almost like a silenced pistol.

Campbell fell backwards, and hit the ground hard.

There was a foot-long spike jutting out of his forehead.


	7. Freefall

_"Casualties for March 4, 2549: Estimated to already be in the thousands within the first hour or so. That's my personal estimate, based on what I've seen done here. I don't know what's going on out __there__ yet. Campbell's dead, ride's toast... Bloody Arrow... Oh yeah. Gonna be a fun fucking day."_

Rommel darted forward even as Campbell's body began to fall backwards. **"**_**Campbell!"**_ He let his feet fall out from under him so as to go into a slide, before grinding to a halt next to the dead Staff Sergeant. The spike was lodged directly between the man's eyes. He was definitely dead.

**"Where is it? **_**Where is it?**_**"** he shouted, swinging his weapon back in the direction that the shot came from. Everyone had redirected their attention to the top of the building, where the shot came from. It _had_ to have come from there, it _must_ have. That was the only place that _could_ have given somebody a shot at Campbell.

**"I see it! It's up on the tower!"** Dom yelled, directing his weapon toward the top of the building. There was a massive antenna, presumably for communications and traffic control, on top of the stairwell's exit. Perched up near the top was one of the strangest things Rommel had ever seen- Not that that was saying much, given all he'd seen today- and it was shooting at them.

Spike-like objects rained down from the tower, a hailstorm of projectiles coming down with violent intent.

Rommel darted for the cover behind the Falcon. The thing was aiming for him now. Most likely because he was the first thing in its line of sight still. Fortunately, the shots were all very inaccurate. Close, but inaccurate. One that lodged itself in the ground next to him was close enough for him to reach out and grab. So he did. He immediately wished he hadn't, because the spike seemed to be made of _bone._

What the _Hell_ were these things?

**"Findish, can you get a fix on the thing!" **he called out, hoping someone could give him an affirmative response.

A couple sniper rifle shots rang out, and the projectiles stopped raining down. **"Hit it," **Findish called back. There was silence for a while.

Rommel came out from behind the Falcon slowly, the piece of bone in his hand still. He looked at it briefly, half-expecting the damn thing to come to life and stab him through his wrist and take over his mind. Just in case, he flung the thing as hard as he could. **"Where'd the thing go, Findish?"**

** "It fell when I shot it. I hit it with three rounds. It isn't getting back up." **

** "Then let's get to the Falcon and get back to Kovcheg before-" **he began, but stopped when he noticed that Dom was starting to shake his head. Almec then began to walk past him, toward the Falcon. Findish and Miller followed, and the three walked right past Rommel, who paused for a moment. He was a little befuddled. **"What? What'd I do? What'd I say?"**

Dom's visor depolarized. He heard it, rather than saw it. He was still looking toward the tower, with his back to the rest of his unit. **"Don't jinx it, man. Don't jinx it."**

Rommel held his arms out to his sides, but still refused to look in his direction. This was really, really disappointing. Rommel had never particularly _liked_ Campbell, but... Damn it, this was wrong. They'd been fighting for... Why, it had been at least thirty years now. They'd always butt heads once in a while, but... That was the _last_ way he expected the man to go out.

Rommel turned around briefly, and strolled over towards the Falcon. They were starting to put Campbell's body into one of the Falcon's seats. They had a policy of leaving no man behind... Living _or_ dead. If that was the way it was to be, then so be it. And they damn well weren't leaving him here. Not with these things. Lord only knew what might happen.

Not exactly a pleasant thought.

Sighing loudly, the man made his way toward the cockpit- And then began to hear a few noises. It started off as sort of a squishy yet crackling sound. It was soon replaced by a few loud thumps, and a low moan. Then high-pitched, yet somewhat low bleating sounds, accompanied by slithering, clicking sounds. He looked up towards where the sound was coming from: The top of the tower.

The bulbous creatures were streaming down from the top of the roof. First only a few, which he popped with a few bullets. Before long, they were streaming down at them in a massive swarm, an army of alien bugs in less-than rank and file formations. The rest of the squad began to get out and assist, firing at the swarm. They wouldn't be able to lift off with all these hostiles coming up, since they could potentially take them down before they could even fire up the engines.

And then came the kicker. A huge form began to lumber toward the ledge.

It was big. At least seven or eight feet tall. It was as big as a Hunter, surely. The thing looked like it was built solid in most areas. It had short legs, but _huge _arms- Which ended in big stumps that were clearly meant for smashing. It had the same head as that damn spidery-looking thing, though the pincers were less like a mouth and more like a mustache. Same color, too. And with the tentacles coming out of the mouth.

He _almost_ would have bet they were the same being, if it weren't for the drastic difference.

**"Ahh, crap... Gimme a break..." **he groaned.

The behemoth let out a low, rumbling growl, and then catapulted itself over the ledge with its massive arms. The concrete where it landed cracked as it hit the ground with a loud thump. The thing's mouth spread wide open, and it began to make gargling sounds. More of the bulbous things began to flow _out of it, _and toward the squad.

**"**_**Findish!**_** Hit it in the mouth, dammit!" **Miller yelled, somewhere behind him.

**"Not exactly easy when there's a swarm of those things coming,"** the sniper snapped back. Rommel made a brief realization, and then darted for where Campbell had fallen. He immediately was forced to recoil in shock and awe, because what he saw was _not_ something he had been expecting.

Campbell was standing up. His pistol was in his hand.

His head was snapped backwards. His veins were protruding very visibly. And there was a giant hole where his neck had been, with several stalks ripping through the hole... As well as through his armpits. Rommel could plainly see in through the hole, and made the realization that those little creatures were what caused people to become... Well, zombified.

This was _not_ Campbell anymore. It was a vessel that had been invaded, and nothing more.

Not-Campbell's arm snapped upward, M6D pistol leveled with Rommel's chest. Rommel brought up his foot hard, and kicked Not-Campbell straight in the forearm. Not-Campbell immediately recoiled, and fired the weapon at the same time. The round hit the Falcon with a loud panging sound. Rommel had hoped to disarm the thing with his blow, but that just didn't happen.

The creature cocked its arm back, and as Rommel recalled the man getting his neck snapped by the unholiest of bitch-slaps earlier, he realized he'd made the mistake of remaining in close quarters. The blow landed square in his gut, and he felt himself being instantly winded. At the same time, however, he wouldn't let something like a gutshot mess him up. As he began to stumble backward from the blow, he reached out, and grabbed Not-Campbell's arm with one hand.

In the least graceful of moves he'd ever pulled off, Rommel hit the ground hard. The zombified Campbell let out a low moan as he fell on top of Rommel, and the stalks began to thrash about as though it could use them as weapons, batting at Rommel's visor. He took Not-Campbell by the shoulders, and rolled hard. _Now _the thing had dropped its weapon.

Lashing out wildly, the creature tried to throw Rommel off it by sheer force of will. In response, Rommel ripped his sidearm out of its holstered position on his thigh with one hand, and took hold of one of the tentacle appendages in the other. He pulled hard, forcing the thing to sit semi-upright and at the same time pulling the parasite inside partially out of the ribcage. Rommel jammed his pistol into the top of Not-Campbell's chest, and pulled the trigger... And kept pulling it until every round he had in the thing was gone.

_Click. Click. Click._

Taking only a second to reload the pistol, Rommel got up off the now-certainly-dead Campbell, who he felt would not be getting up any time soon, and then scooped up what he'd come for- Campbell's M247.

Picking up the machine gun, which was lying next to the Falcon, Rommel knelt down on one knee, and extended the foldable tripod. Cover be damned, he was going to stand where he could hit these things, and he was going to do it regardless of the consequences.

He opened up with the GPMG, and immediately the machine gun began to rattle off, churning through the sea of jellyfish-spiders with ease. But that didn't satisfy yet. He turned his attention on the hulk, which was now charging directly at him like a bull. He could see holes in the behemoth that were clear evidence of it _not giving a damn_ about being shot by high-caliber rounds.

The hulk held up one of its arms in front of it, its larger arm. It reminded Rommel of a Hunter in so many ways. Including _this._ The bastard was just taking it, only slowing down a little bit. Rommel tossed the machine gun to the side. He had one last plan, if the thing was going to charge at him.

He bolted back toward the other end of the landing pad, and let the thing keep coming at him at top speed. When he reached the end of the platform, with nowhere else to run, he spun around to face the raging bull. He pulled a clip-like object off his belt, and made sure there was a length of cord on it. It was a rappel cord, not really meant to be used as he was about to. But in this case...

He clipped it to part of the grate in the ground, and stood up fully. The monster was only a few feet away now, and still at full speed. He only had one opportunity to get this right, then.

He took two steps back, and let gravity do what it did best.

The top of the landing pad grew farther and farther away. Unfortunately for the hulking beast, its momentum carried it clean off the ledge before it could stop in time. Both of them were falling, but Rommel had the advantage. _He_ had a lifeline. This thing was going to slam straight into the ground, and that would be that.

And finally, as the cord began to reach its full length, Rommel wrapped both hands around it, and swung his feet outward.

He felt the crash, rather than heard saw it. Shards of broken glass streamed in all directions, and the world spun all around as he tumbled across the ground as he broke through one of the building's many windows. When he finally came to a halt, he didn't stand up. He was far from dead, and far from injured... But it wasn't every day that he got the opportunity to do something like that, and boy was it exhausting.

He took deep, cleansing breaths, deciding to lay there a moment longer. He kept his eyes closed, deciding he didn't want to look in the event that he hadn't actually crashed through the window, but had imagined it and was now lying on the ground in a bloody pulp. He should have been hurrying. But by God, he did _not_ want to move. He did not want to think or do.

His world was far from perfect, but this was _not_ his world.

He heard another loud crash, but it sounded much more heavy, and much more devastating. He was sure that it was the sound of the behemoth making contact with the pavement. He let a ghost of a grin creep across his face at that thought. He wasn't sure whether or not something that big could be killed by something as trivial as falling, but he was content to think that he'd at least crippled it.

He let his eyes open slowly, finding that he was laying in the middle of a center aisle between several cubicles. There was glass everywhere, unsurprisingly. He slowly pushed himself up into a kneeling position, and looked around for his weapon. He realized at that second that he'd dropped it before jumping off the roof. He'd either have to go up and get it, or do without. Then again, he'd have to go up anyway.

Still down on one knee, he pulled out his pistol, and checked to make sure he had reloaded it. He had. He switched on his low-light mode, and stood up fully. He looked back and forth, then down at his waist. His rappel line was still attached to it. He nodded briefly, and began to make his way toward the window. He'd just reel himself back up.

As he reached the ledge, he took a moment to look down at the street.

The behemoth was _not_ there.

What was there, however, was a myriad of different infected creatures shambling through the streets. A legion of zombified men, women, and aliens... Some of the Human ones were military. Some of them were civilians, despite the fact that the area was supposedly cleared out. Men and women of all different ethnic backgrounds and ages were joined together with members of different species.

Some of them were even children.

He spotted a few that were similar to the thing he'd just fought, but he didn't want to think about their origins.

The city seemed to be in a worse state of chaos than he'd recalled, but that wasn't surprising. Hell in physical form had come for the people of Nasip, and there was no way to get the word out about it as long as the communications were jammed up. This was bad, this was _very_ bad.

Rather than think about it any longer, Rommel clicked the button on his rappel line. The line went taught, and he stepped out of the window. The mechanical device did the rest of the work, dragging him rapidly toward the spot he'd jumped from.

He wrapped his hand around the grate of the landing pad, and began hauling himself over the ledge. He hadn't looked down even once the whole way up. He didn't even want to see what could possibly be happening. He was forced to holster his weapon again as he did so, however, because the snow was giving him a great deal of trouble.

Something suddenly took a firm hold on his arm, and began to drag him upward.

As he finally came to a halt, on his feet, he realized that it was Dom who had helped him to his feet. **"We knew you'd be back shortly," **the man said. He extended his other hand out toward Rommel, offering him his MA2B.

Rommel swiped the weapon, and nodded. **"Do me a favor. Next time I try something like that to take out a single enemy, don't let me. If I do it anyway, smack me."**

Dom rapped hard on Rommel's helmet with his knuckles, then gave him a hard smack to the back of the head. **"How about I do it **_**now**_** and get it out of the way, since you're too damn stubborn to listen to anybody else?"**

Rommel snorted briefly, then looked down at the ground. Something was missing, and that bothered him significantly. **"Where did Campbell go?"**

Dom's head tilted slightly, like he had no idea what Rommel was talking about. He glanced over his shoulder, at the spot where Campbell's body had been. **"Oh, crap... Findish, Miller...?"**

The two swung out from the Falcon, waiting for the man to continue his question.

**"Did either of you two put Campbell into the Falcon?"** Rommel grunted, narrowing his eyes slowly. One of two things had happened. He didn't care to think about either of them very hard, but confirmation was key.

Both of them shook their head. He verbalized a series of expletives loudly, and made his way for the Falcon's cockpit. **"How much damage did this thing take?"** he growled. The thing was still intact, but between everyone shooting it up, he had no idea whether or not it could even make it.

**"Significant, but most of it seems to be restricted to body damage. None of the internal mechanisms are damaged, far as we can tell."**

** "So it can fly."**

** "In theory."**

Rommel hauled himself up and over the fuselage, checking for a moment to see whether or not the inside of it was still clear. It was, so he flung himself into the pilot's seat. The vehicle was still running, never having been turned off by the pilot, but the rotors weren't spinning. He started to fire them up, and when the vehicle didn't explode, he decided the coast was clear. **"Everybody pile in, we're heading back to Kovcheg. See if we can't manage to figure out a game plan."**

The vehicle began to lift off and sail through the cold winter day's skies. Rommel wasn't too thrilled with being buried in snow as he continued to fly, or not having a main gun, or the fact that he had been forced to kill his own squadmate, who had apparently decided he didn't feel like being dead. These were sacrifices he was forced to make. For the "Greater Good."

What a crock.

Sight lines were almost non-existent, between the snow, the smoke, and whatever this other crap in the air happened to be. He noticed that the other substances were sticking to the exterior of the vehicle, though he couldn't tell if it was making any difference. He couldn't hear anything other than the rotors of the vehicle and the city burning. Not even the comments his squad was making, if they were saying anything.

He still had his intercom, however.

He took a moment to reflect on the morning. Over the past couple hours, a Supercarrier had emerged from Slipspace, crashed into the planet, leveling a good deal of the city. Its cargo was a bunch of alien zombies, parasites, and overall monsters that wanted to kill everything. Lord knew what their goals were, or how to stop them. They didn't seem to care about being shot, or falling, or being outnumbered, or sentimental things.

UNSC casualties were most likely already high. Civilian casualties definitely were. Among them was one of his men, who he'd had to kill a second time because he had been turned into an alien zombie creature. Now the city was being overrun by the things, and they had no form of communication as long as they were in the dead zone.

So, the easy part of the plan was getting out of the dead zone.

The hard part of it was figuring out what it was they were going to do once they got there. Hopefully Kovcheg had already gathered some form of intel from units that had made it out of the area. Other people in the area must have survived and gotten out of the area, after all, to report the findings.

One could hope.

Suddenly, there was the sound of emergency warnings going off, and red lights began to blink rapidly all throughout the cockpit. **"Ahh, Hell, what happened?"** he growled, at nobody in particular. He checked the different readouts, and realized from the altitude gauge that they were starting to descend. He frowned, checking the status of the rotors. Both of them were down. Still there, and still receiving power, but not working. So they weren't receiving any upward direction.

He began checking the status of the propulsion systems. Forward propulsion was still active, downward thrust was still at full power, albeit partly damaged from the earlier fight. He looked toward the fuel gauge, which was reading that they still had plenty.

Something had gummed up the system.

Rommel punched the intercom system. **"We got a problem, boys. Jets're up, but the blades ain't spinnin'. I'm gonna see if I can't lock the system in and see what's going on." **He punched a few different control pads, and took his hands off the controls. The Falcon continued on its path, albeit not as he was hoping. He slowly lifted himself out of the cockpit, still in mid-air. He activated the magnetic locks on his boots, ensuring that he wouldn't be falling out any time soon.

He stood up fully, enough to see the rotors. They weren't spinning.

They were also coated in a great many objects that reminded him of pollen or seeds, which had linked the rotors together, and had also entered _inside_ of the machinery that kept everything working. The rotors were locked. Unless they were on the ground, he wouldn't be able to fix them. If he could get them unlocked up here, he'd be killed when the rotors started spinning again, and then the system would be out of control.

He looked around, and realized the whole bird was coated in the crap. Taking that a step further, he came to the conclusion that the smog wasn't smog at all... It was a spore cloud. Worse yet, the spores had purpose. The fact that they hadn't just landed on the vehicle, but had spread to gum up the systems, told him that. They were _trying_ to kill them.

Only one option left, then.

He slid back into the pilot's seat, putting his head into his hands. He was dead either way, as far as he was concerned. So he'd take the last course of action that he could manage to think of. He punched the intercom again. **"Bad news. Blades ain't **_**gonna**_** be spinnin', either. We're going down. Gonna try n' land somewhere that won't get all of us killed..."**

He realized that the altitude was dropping faster, and he was losing more propulsion by the second. They must have started gumming up the engines, too. He let out another violent series of expletives, and then proceeded to set his sights on the nearest, tallest building he could see. He took in a deep breath, and kept it steady on that course.

They were picking up speed in their free-fall.

He continued to flip various switches and punched in different commands, but none of them were of any use. The vehicle wasn't responding at all. He roared a few more bad words, and was starting to fear whether or not the vehicle was even going to make it as far as he had intended. He probably wasn't going to be able to get the thing to land on the roof.

So, then came the next series of questions. Would he have enough power to punch the thing through the walls, if there were any? What was the interior of the building made up of? How much room was there between floors? Would anyone _live_ through such a crash?

None of it mattered as the Falcon slipped below the building's roof level. He gave the thing one final command, diverting all downward thrust into power towards the forward engines. The vehicle responded with a loud, whining sound, and shot straight through the wall with breakneck force.

Rommel saw was the world spinning around him as he was thrown from the open cockpit. He felt himself being thrown about like a pinball, making contact with the floor and the ceiling due to the momentum. He only came to a stop when he felt himself slam into a wall, where he finally slumped to the floor.

He must have hit pretty hard. His vision was blurred, and he felt his head spinning. He willed himself to stand up, trying to force his arms under him to push himself to his feet. The attempt failed, and he hit the ground face-down.

Maybe his body was right. Maybe getting up was a bad idea.

The last thing he saw was the Falcon, and how it was at a terrible angle... And that his squad was scattered across the floor. Possibly dead. Possibly alive.

The world went black.


	8. Old Plan, New Plan

**/03_04_2549/**

**/1900 Hours/**

**/OUTER_COLONY: NASIP/**

**/CATAVAL CASINO, NEW POPLAVA CITY/**

**/STATUS: RED/**

Dominic Almec was sitting atop an overturned slot machine. He had his weapon clutched tightly in his hands, an MA5B. He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been sitting there, but it felt like it had been a long time. He was toying with the radio that he'd stripped out of the Falcon, which was a scorched wreck still planted in the side of the building. It was amazing the thing hadn't managed to dislodge and fall, but it hadn't.

Across from him was Travis Miller, leaning against a wall that he had deemed structurally stable enough to not worry about leaning against. The man's arms were crossed, and he had his M7S set on its magnetic holsters. He was favoring his left arm a lot more than his right. He was fairly sure that he had broken his right arm in the process of the crash, but the fact that he was doing as much with it as he was seemed hopeful.

Mark Findish sat at a series of windows that encircled the room. Most of them were shattered. He sat on a raised bench near the ledge, using the macrobinoculars attached to his helmet to scan the area. His SRS99 rested against the window, within quick reach in the event that he needed it. Findish had been calling out movements he could see. Footmobiles and vehicles alike. So far he hadn't seen any friendly footmobiles, and he was very doubtful any of the vehicles he had sighted were under friendly control either.

The three of them were alone in the room, which had ended up being a casino. Being among the top levels, this was a a much more private area. An executive region, presumably. Dom wasn't entirely sure of how these places worked. He hated them, so he'd never bothered to learn. That was an opinion shared by Rommel, though their opinions on the reasons differed. Dom had always hated them. He found them to be a waste of space and provided no real positive aspects to the world around.

Rommel claimed he hated them because of the fact that he thought they took money away from the people for nothing, were crooked thieves. The translation of the matter was simple: He'd been to too many and lost great deals of money without winning, having been dealt a bad hand.

Rommel was currently laying in another room, possibly conscious, possibly not. He'd been drifting between the two rather frequently, not exactly coherent. That was to be understood, considering he'd been thrown from the cockpit of the vehicle he'd been in and tossed about the room like a pinball. In one of his moments of coherency, he had expressed the wish to be out of sight of the Falcon if he wasn't going to be able to move himself around easily.

That, too, was understandable. Dom was fairly sure he wouldn't want to look at something that had nearly gotten him killed either. While the Falcon had nearly done so for all of them, most of them had just been jarred around. No one else had been beaten up so badly by it.

**"Two tanks, three footmobiles along either side,"** Findish called out. Dom groaned, standing up slowly and approaching Findish. The man handed Dom his rifle, which had a customized scope that featured a zoom of up to fifty times, and could be set to different intervals. Dom fidgeted with the rifle to adjust the settings. With that done, he set the bipod so as to steady it and watch more effectively.

**"Over there. Fifty six de-"**

**"I see them,"** Dom interrupted. He could see the tanks easily. On either side of it were both Humans and Covenant alike. There was something a little more horrifying, however. The outer plating of both of the tanks had some form of bulbous, pustule-like objects coating them. One of them had some kind of strange, three-legged creature that was streaming those spores from gaping holes in it.

**"Those egg-looking things were coating the hull of the Supercarrier," **Findish remarked. He didn't glance toward Dom, though he was addressing him. Instead he gestured out the window, where the Supercarrier was still very, very visible in the distance. **"I seen a few others drive by like that. Even a couple Covenant vehicles, but the Covvies were worse."**

** "You think there's significance to this."** It was a statement, not a question.

**"I think that they- Whatever _they_ are- have picked out a target. They're always heading that way, with clear purpose,"** Findish responded. **"What's up that way, anyway, that might be of any interest to them?"**

Dom said nothing for a while. He thought about it for a good few minutes. Was there anything in that direction? What direction were they even facing? He consulted the compass built into his Heads-Up Display. They were facing Southwest, and the Covenant were heading in the direction opposite the way they were facing. Away from the Supercarrier.

Then it clicked. **"Kovcheg's that way."**

** "**_**Das ist richtig,**_**"** a voice rang suddenly. It was a bit raspy, gravelly, as though said by a drunkard. Everyone's head turned, and in the doorway to the room stood Rommel. He had one hand over his gut and one being used to brace himself against the doorway. His stance suggested he felt like he was going to puke. That was an entirely logical suggestion.

**"You're speaking German, Rommel,"** Dom said, as casually as though he was reminding him to check his blood pressure. This was obviously a semi-regular occurrence, where Dom would have to remind him to speak a language everyone could understand. It usually only happened when the man wasn't entirely coherent, unsociable, or trying to keep things away from people. He probably had some form of a concussion, so it was understandable.

The Senior Chief Petty Officer waved a hand dismissively, sauntering into the room in a less-than-coordinated manner. **"**_**Schraube meines Lebens,**_**" **the man slurred.

**"German again."**

** "I said **_**fuck my life,**_**"** he asserted, then let himself drop to the floor with a loud thud. He groaned loudly. **"And before that I said that's correct." **He found a slot machine of his own to prop himself against as he looked toward Dom.

**"What's correct, Rommel?"**

The man's head bobbed to either side, as though it was too heavy for him to keep steady on his shoulders. He seemed dizzy. He was. The world was spinning in a thousand different directions for him. He was notably not looking in the direction of the Falcon. **"Kovcheg."**

Dom took a few steps toward the man. **"You think they're heading toward the base, Rommel?"** Dom asked. He sounded a little too eager, a little too quick in his question. Everyone was looking at him. He knew he was coming off as being incredibly nervous.

Rommel's head bobbed in what was meant to be a nod, but looked more like he was trying to keep from dozing off. He stretched out his arms and yawned, a bit too theatrically. **"Yep... Kovcheg."**

Dom glanced toward Findish, who seemed to be waiting patiently on further explanation. He glanced at Miller, who shrugged in response. Neither of them had any idea as to what he was going to suggest either way. **"Let's say they're heading to Kovcheg, Rommel. How would they know where it was?"**

Rommel himself shrugged. **"Comms. Radios. Directions."**

** "That's impossible, the communications have been down for the past six hours." **Dom paused, trying to collect his thoughts. **"And they'd have to be real wizards at directions to get a sense of heading from where everyone came from."**

Rommel said nothing for a minute, but then his head bobbed up a little, as if something caught his attention. **"Six hours?"**

** "Six hours." **

The man was quiet for a little while longer. **"How fuckin' long was I out?"**

** "About seven hours," **Findish offered, so as to not force Dom to explain everything. **"Last transmission was about an hour after we crashed. Garbled trash, but it was Kovcheg alright. They were trying to tell everyone to pull back out of the city, saying that any civilians in the area should pull to the base for easy defense." **

Rommel visibly recoiled at that statement, then let his head fall back against the machine he was sitting against. **"Shit. Musta hit pretty hard..." **He was more musing on how much damage he had taken as opposed to how he had been out that long. Finally, he looked toward the Falcon. His hands clenched into fists, as though he wanted to take a running dash at the thing and give it a good beating. Then he relaxed a little, and looked the thing up and down. **"Still. They gotta know where Kovcheg is. If they're a buncha fuckin' bodysnatchers, then they got our comms. Any orders coming from Kovcheg that get heard are gonna get heard by them. They hear it, they tell everyone else. If they communicate, which they got to somehow."**

Something clicked.** "****Where's the shit that jammed up the engines?"**

** "Ed?" **Dom asked, asking for a little further explanation.

**"Those... Spore things. They gunked up the engines, that's why we crashed. They ain't there now, what happened?" **Rommel said, starting to sound a little more coherent. He got up slowly, rolling his shoulders. He was incredibly sore after that stunt, seven hours or not.

Everyone looked at the Falcon, trying to think up some explanation. The vehicle was scorched thoroughly, it had caught fire shortly after everyone was out of it. Nobody had made any attempt to stop it from burning, either. It was Rommel who came to the conclusion that answered his own question. **"They don't hold up against fire. Too fleshy..."** He sounded amused by the thought, and whatever sick thoughts that amused him in the process were not voiced.

**"Doesn't do us much good. We aren't exactly well-equipped for burning 'em up, are we?"** Miller chimed in. **"Besides, where would we go? What would we do?"**

There was a bit of a silence for a while, causing Rommel to think. He started to chuckle a little bit. **"There's hidden weapon caches. Underground. Flood drains, sewers, whatever. I got a map and the access codes to use 'em, too."**

** "You got a plan on getting to them?"** Findish asked, returning to his watchful position at the window. Rommel was beginning to think that everyone was doubting him, or they were all skeptics. He couldn't blame them, but it was hard to remain skeptical of anything after what they'd seen today.

**"We go into the street, and we drop on in," **Rommel said. He made it sound simple, as though it was the end-all, be-all solution to all their problems, and everything would sort itself out from there. **"We'll need the spare ammo anyway. Didn't exactly pack it in for the long haul against... Well, this bullshit."**

Dom nodded in agreement, but at the same time seemed a little reluctant to devote himself to such a plan. **"Okay, so we don't really know what we're doing as it is... That's fine, considering we don't know the full situation." **He trotted back toward his own machine, and sat down on top of it. **"But Rommel, what're we going to **_**do?**_** The whole damn city's burning and occupied by those things. We haven't found a single friendly passing by in the hours we've been **_**looking.**_**"**

** "First off,"** Rommel said, throwing a pointing finger at the man to indicate him. **"Stop reminding me that I was out cold for so fuckin' long."** He lowered his finger, and pulled his MA2B. **"Second off, we'll go with the original plan. Head to Kovcheg, figure everything out."**

** "Right. 'Cause that worked so well the first time around." **Rommel's eyes focused on Miller, the source of the outburst.

**"Boy, if I didn't feel like somebody took a jackhammer to the back of my skull, I'd be at your throat right now, asshole," **the Senior said. He shook his head slowly, looked at him as though he wanted to say more, and finally stood up. Then there was a brief crackle from Dom's direction, who was still holding the radio. The radio was full of static suddenly, as though it wanted to relay a message.

**"Can't you fix that damn thing?"** Rommel growled.

**"I didn't know how bad it was broken, given there wasn't anything coming in on it anyway,"** Dom offered in response. **"Anyway, it's getting clearer. Shut up and listen."**

_**"-cheg. Repeat, this is ONI Base Kovcheg. We are declaring Bloody Arrow in New Poplava, Old P-va, New Ve-zag, Old Venez- and all surrounding cities. All ci- in the area are advised to report to the nearest mi- insta- and hold out. We are facing an unknown threat, and will not be taking any chances. This message will continue at regular intervals."**_

The message continued to play until the radio was full of static. **"It just said Bloody Arrow, didn't it?"** Miller asked quietly. He had moved from his spot to get a little closer to listen in.

**"Yeah... It did,"** Almec responded.

Bloody Arrow was possibly the worst nightmare of a soldier. It meant that the situation was completely hopeless. No reinforcements should be sent in under any circumstances. Anyone in the area should retreat if they could, or do as much damage to the forces deemed impossible to defeat. It was only declared in times of dire emergencies, and was _never_ something to be taken lightly.

Rommel cursed vigorously. **"Well, you heard the radio. To Kovcheg."**

No one questioned how long the message had been playing, and whether or not it was still accurate. Or if the people who had sent it were even still alive.


	9. Underground Railroad

Descending the building seemed to take forever and a day. Nobody kept track of how many flights of stairs they had to go down, or how many floors the building seemed to have. Either way, by the time everyone reached the main floor, they were tired of stairs. Especially Rommel, who had on multiple occasions had to stop due to being very disoriented.

When the double-doors to the main entrance opened, everyone immediately plowed through it. Miller and Almec were at point, Findish and Rommel bringing up the rear. Machines of all types were lined up like an army of one-armed bandits. Sometimes it was hard to imagine that these contraptions still existed in the twenty-sixth century, centuries after their conception.

Humans never did change much.

More alarming, however, was the fact that a lot of them were heavily damaged. Many were toppled. Some areas looked like they had burned up. The less promising was that the ceiling had actually collapsed in at some areas. It seemed strange that this area would have more structural damage than others, but there could have been a hundred thousand reasons for that. The most likely culprit was that the ceiling was made out of cheap materials. It was high enough to not make a huge difference anyway.

Least promising of all was the fact that directly in front of the door was what appeared to be a heavily mutated severed arm. The fingers were curled into tentacled appendages. The veins were bulging, blue lines that streaked all across it. The flesh appeared rather... Sickly. Rotten.

Rommel half-expected the thing to use those appendages to drag itself across the floor and launch itself at them.

Miller approached it slowly, and prodded it with the tip of his boot. When it didn't respond, he cocked his leg back, and punted the thing toward the door.

This turned out to be a bad move, apparently. There was suddenly a high-pitched roar, and plasma rounds filled the open air. Brilliant blues and greens occupied the space around their heads in a matter of seconds. It would've been beautiful to watch, if the things wouldn't burn a hole clean through on contact.

Cutting down the ones with the weapons was easy. Cutting down the ones that flung themselves out from around corners to attack was not so much. Humanoid figures ran at them in a clumsy gait, arms flailing in all directions. They had been Human at one point; they were far from it now.

They weren't military, either.

What had once been ordinary people, civilians, ran at them frantically, seeking to destroy them... Or whatever it was their overall intended achievements were. An overweight man in what had once been a suit was at the front. He was backed by two far less recognizable forms, and a third that was easily recognized as what had once been a woman. She had no clothing, but the features were all gone, only rotten flesh. Her chest offered the feathery stalks that all of them seemed to have. Her left hand was missing.

They had their candidate for who had lost.

But the rotting of these... Seemed _worse._ They'd degraded over the past few hours, turned into the true forms of the undead nightmares they truly were. They were no longer anything like regular people; they were mutated, changed. Any reservations anyone might have felt about shooting them earlier were completely gone. They were _not_ people anymore.

So they gunned them down, bit by bit.

However, as before, they never went down easy. If shot in the arm, the arm fell off without any repercussions. If shot in the legs, they scuttled. If shot through their torso, they dragged. They would not be stopped until they were fully dismembered, and even then, that was a task easier said than done.

As the fat man fell- And he was the last to fall, being slower than the others- his gut suddenly swelled up. The buttons on his suit popped, and with a little bit of a groan, his stomach exploded, filling the air with green fumes... And _spores._

**"Make sure everything's sealed!"** someone exclaimed, and everyone's hands immediately went to their throats, checking the seals of their suits. The suits only provided fifteen minute's worth of air, but it could pull in air from the outside. It just filtered out most of the toxins. Still, Rommel subconsciously felt that they'd probably need to be careful about the air they were breathing.

The spores proved harmless, as did the fumes. The spores did, however, settle onto their armor. No one thought much of it, though attempts to scrape them off proved more difficult than expected.

They seemed to be _rooted. _They also seemed to be spreading slowly across their armor, a sign he didn't care for one bit.

Rommel fired off a couple extra rounds from his rifle, and pressed the smoking barrel against the little pests that were rooting themselves to his armor. They immediately stopped spreading, shriveled, and burned away. **"Heat's definitely the trick. Burn the fuckers, they ain't gonna stand it."**

Everyone followed suite in that matter, and then proceeded for the door.

Rommel, however, lingered a moment longer. He wasn't in any immediate need of ammo, but he thought better of the situation. He proceeded toward one of the bodies of a dead something-or-other, which had a weapon tightly gripped in its hands. Bright blue and silver, the weapon was of Covenant origin. He wrestled the Type-25 DER out of the tentacled fingers of this weird thing- Which he decided was an Elite- and inspected it closely.

It worked when the mutant was firing it. Must have had enough juice to be worth keeping. Hopefully. At least it would be able to fire.

He heard footsteps behind him, and turned to face the source. There stood Dom, arms crossed. **"Seriously? You can't be in **_**that**_** bad a need..."** Almec said, a bit patronizingly. He wasn't scorning, so much as trying to figure out behind the logic of the decision. It was a well-known that fact that Rommel hated Covenant weapons with a passion... Or at least, most of them. He'd expressed a liking for the Type-51 before, but the fact that it fired radioactive rounds, exhausted possibly toxic fumes, and ejected the magazine on its own directly into the face of the operator did not make it an ideal weapon.

Rommel shrugged.** "If they don't like being lit up,"** he said, hooking the thing up to his thigh holster- It was big, but it fit- and then adjusted the rifle he was holding. **"So, we'll see how they settle for searing hot plasma in the face." **He moved past Dom towards the doorway with that having been said, seeming to settle the matter quite simply.

He could see Dom shaking his head behind him. He didn't care.

Stepping out through the door, Rommel checked the ammo counter on his rifle. Thirty five in the magazine. He had a couple more in his combat webbing, and a good deal in his rucksack. About half of those were loaded with depleted uranium "Shredder" rounds. He'd come prepared with plenty of spare magazines, but he hadn't figured on having to hold out against enemies who didn't care if they got gunned down.

He hadn't figured on having to fight a whole Goddamn city full of what amounted to zombies, either.

They'd travel underground. If one knew the right paths, they could take the sewer practically straight to Kovcheg. Assuming all the routes were still intact, and that they hadn't been completely sealed off. Proper access codes should have been able to get them in without issue.

The key was stealth; A small group of black-clad, heavily armored men with lethal weapons walking about in a winter wonderland wasn't exactly stealthy. They moved from cover to cover, though it might not have been very effective given most of their cover only had one side to it. A wrecked car here, a mass of rubble there, a dumpster, a demolished military vehicle, alleyways, through other buildings.

The major point of the issue was that there weren't many places to go, and the enemy could be anywhere. For all they knew, it was everywhere, waiting in the shadows. They had no idea as to what they were fully capable of, what their thought processes were, what their goals were, and what their intelligence level was. There might have been something even more horrible than they had already witnessed in store for everyone.

That was a horrifying thought.

On more than one occasion they were forced to lay low, and get as low to the ground and out of sight as possible, as an infected convoy rolled past, or footmobiles shuffled through. More than once, they were forced to ambush a group that came too close for comfort, gunning them down as efficiently as they could manage. Everyone understood the secret to taking them down was to put as many holes through the center mass as possible, directly through the chest.

Between hard work, time, and patience, they managed to get to one of the city-owned facilities that led into the storm drains, the sewers, and whatever lay beyond. It was a small, ramshackle building with little to notice about it. It was a little concrete structure, with a big, steel door and a few windows. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire blocked off the structure, set out about thirty feet from it on any side. There was an old building on either side of it, and a warehouse behind it.

As the group approached the chain-link fence, Rommel noted the aged signs. _"KEEP OUT- PROPERTY OF NEW POPLAVA,"_ said one. _"NO TRESPASSING, TRESPASSERS WILL BE-"_ The rest of the sign was gone, faded and broken. Rommel could guess what the rest of it said anyway, something to the extent of being prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Or shot. Depending on whether or not it was a humorous sign.

The gate to the little shack didn't exactly reinforce the idea of law enforcement and keeping out all intruders to be necessary. It didn't even reinforce the idea that the shack was important. It was a gate held in place and locked only by a rusted old padlock and a length of equally rusty old chain. When they stood directly before the gate, Rommel glanced at the padlock, and back at Miller.

Though Miller wouldn't see it, Rommel was wearing the smuggest grin on his face. He half-expected the man to start complaining about locked doors again, as he had back at Ember Tower. The man looked at him, somewhat expectantly, but said nothing. Shrugging, Rommel took the padlock in both hands, examining just how rusted it was. He was half-surprised the thing didn't disintegrate in his hands.

Drawing his pistol- Favoring it for the fact that it was silenced- Rommel put a single slug through the padlock and chain. The chain shattered, and what was left of it rattled to the floor. The padlock hit the ground with a loud thud.

He glanced around to be sure that no hostiles in the area might have been alerted to their presence, then proceeded with caution. He swapped out the M6S in favor of the MA2B again, which he was almost tempted to drop in favor of the plasma rifle strapped to his thigh. It wasn't indecisiveness, it was a matter of not knowing what he was truly up against.

Either way, he proceeded across the remaining thirty feet to the station, with the rest of Ion in tow. When the door that led _inside_ the station proved to be locked, as he expected it would be, he considered his options for a moment. He could shoot through the door again. Or he could bust the windows and climb through. Breaking the window would be noisy, but would conserve ammunition and be potentially quicker. Shooting through the door would waste ammo, but be more direct and less noisy.

Of course. The door was made of steel, so shooting it wouldn't be the best of plans, heavy-caliber rounds or not.

Then a new thought occurred to him. He brought up his boot, and snap-kicked the door with as much force as he could. The door made a terrible sound, but sure enough came off its hinges. It hit the ground with a loud, metallic thump. It might as well have been folded in half. It probably had made just as much noise as breaking the window would have, but he didn't care. It meant they didn't have to crunch through more glass.

The room was dark, but since the city was in a state of twilight, it didn't really matter anyway. He saw a few rats scurry off into the dark, undisturbed by the outside ordeal. Cobwebs everywhere hardly seemed bothersome now, in comparison to anything else they'd seen today. Either way, it seemed that this place hadn't seen traffic, maintenance, or anything along those lines in a _long_ time.

Switching on VISR mode, Rommel gestured for the others to move in through the room. Almec and Miller moved into the room and towards the massive door on the other side. It was another steel door, but it was more akin to a vault door than a conventional one. There was a large wheel to turn that would remove the locks, and the door could then be pulled open. It was safe to assume that the door probably wouldn't want to open.

He gestured toward Findish to take the wheel and start turning it. He got a nod in return, and Findish got to turning the massive wheel. Miller and Almec took positions in front of the door, waiting for it to open. Then they would move in, and they would be on their way.

Rommel briefly had the realization that, being in the middle of the freezing winter, melted snow and ice might have filled up the storm drains. If that was the case, then they would be having issues. He tried not to think about that fact, since they'd come so far, and spent all this effort getting here.

There was a loud clunk as the door's technical lock came out, and Findish stopped turning the wheel. There was a slight hiss and a loud creak as the door opened itself a little. Findish moved toward the door itself, gripping a handle on it, and began to pull with all his might. The door creaked open, revealing the darkness behind it. A stairwell.

They waited a moment. Then Almec and Miller moved into the darkness. Miller was on point, Almec behind him. Rommel moved in next, and Findish was last in line. They were single file for the purpose of moving down the narrow stairway, which spiraled down into the dark depths of the city's underground levels.

The movement down the stairs was silent, as was to be expected. It was also dark. Once in a while the ground shook, as though something big had happened on the surface. It could have been anything. Rommel subconsciously reminded himself that they needed to make sure they were headed in the right direction. If they went in the completely wrong direction, they'd run into the Supercarrier, which would cut off a great deal of the sublevels.

That brought a new threat, in reality, that Rommel didn't want to think about. He found himself wanting to think even less than he usually did. The more he thought, the less things made sense, and the more he wished that reality would just shut itself off. Reality, however, was very persistent, and very insistent of itself.

It would not be ignored.

There were benefits and problems with moving into the sublevels, as it turned out. As they moved into the exit, they found that the power was actually _on._ Dim lights at regularly spaced intervals lined the main stretch, which was not completely flooded with water. If they stayed on the main catwalk, they'd have to slosh through about about seven inches of water. Two feet if they didn't stay on the catwalk. This far underground, it was also relatively warm, keeping the water in a liquid form instead of freezing to ice. In fact, it was somewhat humid.

The reason for the humidity could be attributed to the fact that the walls were _completely_ coated in some form of... Well, he wasn't sure exactly. It reminded him of the latrines after a deuterium-laced meal. The walls were coated in a downright _disgusting_ substance, which reminded him of a mixture between rotten flesh, vomit, and diarrhea in color. In texture, it, too, looked like rotten, putrid flesh.

He recognized the material as being like what those blasted zombie things seemed to be turning into.

Mutated forms lined the walls. Most of them were so dismembered to the point where they no longer had any limbs. Torsos and severed limbs were pasted to the walls, rotting and decaying at a rapid rate, adding rotten flesh to rotten flesh. Massive, bulbous, pustule-like objects were clustered about on the walls and ceiling, and even a few under the water. They were the egg-like things they had seen.

It was a cave of flesh. And oh, good Lord above, it _stank._

Somebody coughed. It was Miller. **"What in the name of screaming **_**shit**_** is **_**this?"**_ the man managed to choke out. He sounded like he was on the verge of vomiting. Rommel couldn't blame him.

**"Shut up and ignore it,"** Rommel responded, pushing past the two and into the main chamber. His boots squished or clanked depending on where they landed, whether in organic pile or metallic grate. He tried not to focus too hard on the organic bits. It was hard not to, however, when some of the growths on the walls seemed to shake violently for no reason. _That_ sent a shiver down his spine.

He realized briefly that they were _all_ moving a little bit. Jiggling, as though there was something inside them. He wanted to think about this fact even less.

He subconsciously held his breath as he himself took point. He checked his magazine briefly. Full magazine now, thanks to the ambushes they'd staged. He was working with a magazine full of Shredder rounds now, but he had a thought. The Shredder rounds shattered on impact, which essentially turned a single round into shrapnel. With these targets being fleshy, he figured it would be as effective as any fully-automatic shotgun, fougasse, or grenade would be.

As long as the targets weren't armored, they worked supremely well.

The weapon was maybe three quarters of a klick from where their current position was. **"Keep moving, boys,"** Rommel said, his voice quiet as he said it.

And so they did. One step at a time, creeping through the storm drain. They avoided the pustules, the bodies, and everything else the sublevels of the city had to offer. Occasionally a catwalk would branch off into some other area, but those areas seemed... Even less hospitable. That was fine, they didn't need to approach those areas anyway.

Finally, they reached a corner. There was a brief thump, as though something massive had taken a step. They couldn't _see_ it, since it was around a corner. But it was there, they could hear it... It was making low, somewhat bleating noises. It was a curious sound, but it didn't sound like it was getting farther.

Rommel gave the signal to start backing up, and get ready for combat.

Suddenly, there was the sound of something lashing through the air, quickly followed by a series of loud pops. **"Oh, **_**shi- Get it off me!**_**" **somebody yelled. Findish was being held to a wall by a great many tentacle-like objects, their origins clearly of flesh and bone. One was held around his waist, another around his right wrist, a third around his left ankle.

The creature that the tentacles extended from was a corpse with no limbs, melded with the wall. The tentacles were at least fourteen feet long, and they all extended from different parts of the corpse. The chest, the neck, an arm... The body had been hollow, housing only the violent appendages.

Worse yet was that some twenty something-or-other pods were now ruptured open... And hundreds of the little parasites were _swarming_ all over the walls, closing in.

From around the corner came something worse.


	10. Unstoppable Force, Immovable Object

This day just kept getting worse and worse, no matter what they seemed to do. A Covenant ship fell out of the sky and unleashed untold numbers of an alien zombie horde, which spread their infection across apparently not only this city but others within a matter of hours. Escape by air seemed to be impossible, given that the spores filled it. Escape by ground seemed improbable, given the vast amounts of hostiles that could have possibly inhabited it.

As if that wasn't bad enough, they thought the underground would better service their escape. Instead they had just crawled into what seemed to be the beginnings of a hive, which could have stretched for miles in any direction. How it had formed so fast was a question not worth asking. How they decided to make use of the storm drains were worth even less.

What _was_ worth asking was how this situation could possibly be escaped.

From around the corner- Also likely to be from the _depths of Hell-_ came a creature that looked downright terrifying.

It had long, somewhat skeletal legs that seemed to have possibly belonged to an Elite at some point, but seemed to have been so deformed and degraded that they had elongated, seeming like the leg bones of some prehistoric beast, which met a very narrow, equally bony waist, which seemed to be composed of three columns. The main "spine," and two pivoting and balancing tendon-like parts.

The waist connected to a large, bulbous form, the shape of which was best described as mushy _popcorn, _seeming to be like several large sacs joined together into a hideous, unrecognizable shape. The overall form had the same sickly fleshy color of dead flesh, just as everything else seemed to anymore. There was a cavity in its chest from which innumerable stalks protruded. At a guess, it was at least twelve. That seemed less than promising.

However, despite all these horrific features, the most fear-inspiring were the thing's _arms._ Rommel estimated its arms at twenty feet in length, give or take... But they weren't _arms._ They were long, thick, and segmented. Each segment seemed a lot like the vertebrae of a Human spine... And these unnecessarily long limbs ended in a massive, barbed point, reminiscent of a spade.

Its arms were fucking _whips._

This eighteen foot tall monster began to close in slowly, sloshing through the murky waters of the dimly lit tunnel. Its whip appendages dragged behind it through the water, flitting and twitching once in a while to reveal the barbed points at their ends, sometimes curling, sometimes coiling. The things Rommel deemed to be sensory stalks lashed wildly, as if it was sniffing at them, trying to get a sense of what they were worth.

On the other side, Findish was being held in place by a corpse. A fly in a spider's web was an appropriate comparison, given that he was caught there with all these blasted parasitic creatures moving in to do their work.

Needless to say, Rommel now regretted the entire plan.

**"**_**Get them the fuck off me!**_**" **Findish exclaimed again, snapping Rommel back to reality. Miller started to spray the parasites with his submachine gun, and Almec started to focus on the behemoth with what he had. Rommel himself went after Findish, ripping his combat knife out of his chest. He'd done a lot of things with that knife. He'd gutted countless insurgents, slain innumerable Covenant, and used it for so many different utility purposes that it was as much history as it was a weapon. At one point he'd used it to personally decapitate a Prophet.

The weapon was not only a weapon, and not only history... But a symbol of Rommel's full willingness to get down and dirty, and to indulge in the brutality of war. He considered using a blade to be serious business, and so he'd taken it upon himself to ensure he knew how to use it best.

Now was one of those times he needed it as a utility knife again.

**"Shit! Don't move, you're just pissing it off!"** Rommel yelled, and took up a handful of the tentacle around the man's waist, as close to the base as he could manage. He raised his knife into the air, and brought it down into the tentacle, shearing through the fleshy thing. The remaining bit that was attached to the corpse recoiled, spewing green liquid that he somehow didn't think was blood in all directions. The grip of the others loosened up, and Findish dropped through them and into the murky water.

One of the tentacles made a move to lash out and grab Rommel's left hand, coiling tightly around it. The other went for his right. **"Son of a-!"** He shifted his grip on the knife, and put all his strength into bringing his hand across to cut through another one. This time the grip didn't loosen, but instead tightened. He used his newly-freed hand to _crush_ the last of them, and then ripped it clean out of the torso.

Now freed from his oppressor, Rommel sloshed through the water, looking for Findish. The man broke the surface a few feet beside him, and even though Rommel was _looking_ for him, he still had the living Hell scared out of him and nearly knifed_ him._ **"Get up, get up and **_**fight!**_**" **Rommel declared, grabbing the man by the arm and dragging him upward. Findish slung his rifle over his shoulder, and traded it for the M7 he had stowed at his hip.

Rommel at the same time traded his knife for the plasma rifle he had stowed on his own hip.

Taking the shiny blue alien weapon in his hands, the man aimed for the behemoth. It had picked up speed, and was now lashing its arms more wildly, with a clearly lethal intent. It started to emit a low groan, which almost seemed to crescendo into a full-out roar... But then it suddenly changed into a _laugh._

The motherfucker was _laughing at them!_

**"You think this is funny you son of a bitch?"** Rommel growled under his breath, ripping a grenade out of his combat webbing. The thing started to lash a little more violently. Ten feet. He hit the primer, but held the grenade for a moment longer. It could've lashed out by now if it wanted to, it was_ toying_ with them. He was _not_ in the mood for games. Its whips started to make circles as they lashed, deliberately contemplating how it was going to rip them apart. **"Well laugh at this, motherfucker! Everybody, down!"**

He hurled the grenade with all his might, directly at the stalks that might have been considered the thing's technical head. The M9 HE-DP Grenade wasn't the most powerful explosive on the block... But in an enclosed quarters, it would get the job done. He threw himself under the water and covered his head. He felt, rather than heard, the ensuing explosion.

He felt bits of shrapnel ping off his armor, as well as some fleshy chunks of something. He threw himself above the surface of the water, and found that the air was full of debris. Fleshy bits, smoke, steel, and rock. He couldn't see through it.

And then a whip-like tentacle drove itself through the air, straight at his gut.

He rolled out of the way just in time for the thing to miss him, instead punching through the metal grate he had been laying against. He held up his rifle, and started trying to cycle through his VISR mode. It wasn't picking up the bastard because the _entire Goddamn tunnel was registering hostile._ He clambered to his feet and pulled the trigger, and hoped that his theory on the plasma rounds was right.

Bolts of blue plasma filled the air, and he could hear some of them making impact with a soft target, as evidenced by the sizzle of burning flesh. He heard the behemoth moan in what sounded like annoyance rather than pain, and ducked as a pair of whipped arms scissored through the air that his head had been occupying not but a second ago. As he saw the smoke clear up, he could see the arms crossing back and forth to make an X-pattern in front of it, which seemed to be more of a defensive position than a preparation to attack.

He continued firing, and suddenly heard another weapon join in. He turned back in time to see Almec, who was using his own rifle to try and bring the monster down.

**"Get its attention, I'm gonna blow the fucker apart!"** Rommel roared. Dom started to sweep to one side, firing at it. Its arms continued to lash defensively, fast enough to where Rommel almost questioned whether or not any of the shots even got through. More disturbing was that the shots _weren't_ penetrating through its arms. By now, he assumed, they should've dismembered it.

One of the thing's arms coiled back behind it, curling around so as to get as much momentum as possible. The other one thrust out wildly as though to stab Almec. It missed, but it was a ploy. The second arm swung around, carving a wide arc through the air, and moreover, through the walls. The crust on the walls came loose and fell into the water in some areas.

As it had thrust, Rommel had darted forward through the opening. He made a few meters' worth of progress, but had to duck for the arcing blow. Even as he did he knew he had made a mistake, because the first whip was coiled in the air... And came down like a falling tree. He just barely rolled to avoid it.

A shot rang out again, echoing through the tunnels violently. The behemoth's arm didn't come back up, but instead there was a noise that sounded like a cross between a hiss and a roar, the source clearly pain. Rommel broke the surface of the water again- Glad that he didn't have to hold his breath for how many times he'd gone under- and looked up at the monster.

The arm it had lashed out at _him_ with was now detached relatively close the shoulder. The stump the whip thrashed about, spewing brown-green liquid that reminded him of sewage in all directions. He resisted the urge not to dive under again when he was spattered by a good deal of it, if for nothing more than to clean himself up.

There was no time for that, however, as the beast focused itself on what had damaged it so:

Lance Corporal Mark Findish.

The behemoth stomped forward as fast as it could muster- Surprisingly fast, given its size and overall body composition- and damn near trampled Rommel. He continued firing at it even as it did, into its face, its torso, its legs, and then its back once it had passed him. **"Goddamn it, **_**fight me!**_**"** he shouted. His plea went unheard, and the thing wrapped its arm around Findish as the corpse had earlier.

It began to visibly squeeze, and there was a loud _crack _as it did so. Findish let out a scream of agony, and there was another _pop. _He screamed again, but there was only so much that could be done. Rommel got up on his feet again, and had a split second to assess the situation.

Almec was firing at the monster, which just wouldn't die.

Miller was gunning down more of the parasites, which seemed to come wave after wave after endless wave. He would occasionally turn to fire at the bigger one, but his attention was better off not split.

There wasn't a whole Hell of a lot of options.

Rommel let out a roar, and ran as quickly as he could through the high waters. He threw himself at the eighteen-foot-tall behemoth, digging his fingers into the rotten flesh to create his own handholds. It came away in chunks until he finally found a handhold. He put the plasma rifle into the thing's back, and pulled the trigger so hard he thought the weapon was going to shatter in his grip.

The behemoth thrashed under him, but had no way of fighting back. Its tentacled arm lashed backward and unreeled, hurling Findish some twenty feet where he landed with a metallic thump and a loud splash. The tentacle went on to hit Rommel directly in the back. He let out a grunt in pain, but didn't waver.

Something discouraging, however, was that the plasma rifle suddenly stopped glowing. It wasn't burning his hands, so it wasn't overheated. The stupid thing had run out of ammunition before he was done using it. With a loud growl, he used the thing as a burning pitchfork, and drove the two prongs into the juggernaut's flesh. The flesh burned and sizzled, and the weapon sank into the beast.

It lashed harder, and fell to its knees. The creature resorted to a desperation tactic... And Rommel was very nearly gutted. The creature drove its whip through its own waist, and if it weren't for the angle, Rommel would've lost his organs. Instead, the barb glanced off his chest plate, bouncing upward, the segmented arms carving a deep gash in the chest plate.

Rommel hit the ground hard, and checked himself to make sure the barb hadn't actually cut him. It didn't. But his armor was in a desperate need of new paint... And his _Totenkopf _was all but destroyed.

He got up off the ground, and narrowed his eyes. That really, really, _really_ pissed him off. He could've cared less about the damage, but once somebody touched his _Totenkopf_ or the jaw on his helmet? He was pissed. They had been a gift from his sister when he'd gotten leave, which had been close enough to his birthday to constitute as gifts for the same purpose.

His sister was dead now. Killed by the Covenant.

His armor was one of the few things that he valued in life anymore. It sounded absurd, but he took pride in both the battle damage and the symbolism of what set him apart from the rest. He would not stand for the damage, and he refused to let anyone who damaged it live.

The creature, still on its knees and thrashing wildly, could not apparently manage to dislodge the whip without damaging itself further. Though most seemed to care little for their integrity, this one seemed to be smarter. Its whip retracted slowly, but there was much to retract. He had the advantage here.

A chorus of inhuman wails sounded. Down in the direction that the parasites were coming from, there were several mutant Humans, Elites, and other, less recognizable forms coming straight after them. Maybe a hundred meters, they had some time before they'd get there.

**"Miller! Hit it with a thermite charge!"** he barked. Miller immediately swapped placed with Almec, with Almec firing at the parasites now. They _weren't_ dying down in numbers, and now they were joined by the regular footmobiles.

Miller ripped a thermite shaped charge out of his combat webbing. Generally they were used for anti-armor or similar roles, and were a Hell of a way to make a statement when breaching a door was necessary. Using them for anti-infantry was generally viewed as a waste. In this case, making an exception seemed like the best thing to do.

So, Miller ran straight up to the helpless behemoth, and jammed the charge directly into the cavity that all the sensory stalks were coming from without hesitation. He hit the primer, and immediately began to jog away. **"Almec, c'mon, let's go!" **Rommel yelled. The man fired a few more rounds at the parasites, then broke off and followed past the crippled monster. It suddenly began to make loud screeching noises as smoke emitted from the cavity.

Rommel didn't glance back at it, instead picking up speed towards Findish's unmoving form, partially submerged about ten feet ahead of his current position. His vital signs showed he wasn't _dead_, which was good. The man groaned a little, turning his head to face Rommel. **"We gotta get movin', Findish. Up."**

The man made a move to get up, but immediately fell back down. He shook his head quickly, taking in breaths sharply, erratically. **"Can't... Can't..."** he said solemnly, as though it was a death sentence. The thing had broken him in ways they couldn't yet comprehend. Rommel could see that one of his legs was completely crushed, as was one of his arms. His chest plate was equally smashed. **"Go, just... **_**Go.**_**"**

Behind them, the monster stood up finally, pulling its whip from its body. It took a shambling step forward, then erupted into flames. It let out a shrill screech, thrashing wildly, its arms cutting arcs through the air at nothing, only damaging the crust that had formed over the walls, shattering open pods where not fully developed parasites fell out. The walls began to catch fire, and finally the thing collapsed. There was a wall of flame that would keep up for a good while, and keep anything coming after them away.

**"No time to argue," **Rommel said. He took the man by his good arm, pulling him to his feet. He gave out a sharp cry in pain, and almost fell off-balance due to his bad leg. Rommel wrapped the man's arm over his shoulders, around his neck. **"Just don't look at it, keep your eyes in front of us or on me. Whatever you do, don't look at it." **

** "That... Bad?"**

** "You'll be fine. Just as soon as we get to Kovcheg. They'll patch you up, and all you'll have to do is relax." **Findish gave several heavy coughs that sounded like a wet hacking. His visor suddenly depolarized, and the man looked at him for a moment. The entire lower half of his visor was dripping red with the blood the man had heaved up. Rommel feared for the worst. He'd probably broken more than a couple ribs. If it was dire, he'd gotten a lung punctured.

**"Four, up front. Two, keep us covered in back," **he ordered. The men didn't hesitate, and the group moved forward quickly. Behind them the roars and screams of a horde just waiting for the flames to dissipate grew louder. Rommel dared not look behind him to see which one would have the _cojones_ to come through first. They didn't care about bullets, he didn't want to know if they weren't smart enough to not charge into the fire... Or whether the fact that they were only being burned on the outside might prove to be a problem.

So they kept on the move for the armory.

After a while, they could see it. Finally, there it was. The door was completely covered in the gunk that coated all the walls, but it was closed. A red light above the door suggested it was locked.

Rommel cleaned off the console using a free hand, briefly considering whether or not the blasted thing would work or if it was too corroded. He also took into consideration the fact that all the water around could potentially be bad for the armory in the event that too much got in. Nevertheless, he keyed in the access code:

_[ROMMEL.E.367138(S1)] _

The light above the door turned green. Said door gave out a metallic hiss, then opened itself up. Water sloshed around Rommel's boots and in through the door, but he was somewhat pleased to see a second door. It was like an airlock, or close enough. He wasn't sure as to just how pressurized it was, but when the waters filled in this next chamber and didn't visibly continue moving through the door, he decided that they must have been pressurized to some extent.

Everyone moved in, and Almec glanced at a pair of red and green buttons next to the door. He hit the red one, and the door swung itself shut. A set of intricate locking mechanisms activated, and the light above the door went red again. Silence filled the room, apart from the water sloshing as they moved through it to the other door and Findish's occasional grunts of pain. Despite that, the man didn't complain.

Miller hit the green button on the next door. This one swung open as well, and the water around their legs spilled into the room.

Nobody bothered to pay attention to that, however. What was more important was the vast arsenal of weaponry in front of them, across racks and shelves and cases all across the room, with seemingly no end in sight.

Perhaps more important than that was the fact that not even this room was safe from the crust that now coated the tunnel's walls, and that many of the weapons had been overgrown by it.


	11. Surplus In Stock

_"I'd be lying if I said I expected to nearly have a second casualty tonight. I thought I'd be done with writing for tonight, having caught up with most of what I needed to say while we were back in the casino. Looking back, I'm wondering how, in my then-unstable state, I managed to even come to the conclusion I needed to write down anything. More surprising is that I was able to write at all. But, sitting here in this gunk I'm now more than certain used to be living at one point- And may still very well be- I realize that if all else fails, I should try to record these events somehow. If we don't make it- And let's be honest, odds are getting lower the further we push forward- then hopefully someone will find this, and have some idea as to what's happened he [Rest of section unintelligible, stained with blood]_

_ The above is a perfect example of what I meant by having a second casualty. Findish's condition is deteriorating... I'd be lying if I said I particularly expect him to survive much longer. I don't think we'll have the medical capabilities available, and I don't think he'll be in any condition to drag to Kovcheg. If Kovcheg's even safe anymore. Bloody fucking zombies. Who would've thought?"_

As Rommel pushed into the room, he had several thoughts running through his mind all at once. All of them had no answers that could be discerned immediately, and the metaphorical train of thought ran out of tracks. Having derailed, it crashed, and maimed or killed all of the passengers on-board. That having been done, his head was now pounding, every particle in his brain wailing in agony, having been victimized by the train of thought's crash.

He dragged Findish into the room, and set him down against one of the weapon racks for a moment. Findish gave an exasperated sigh of relief, undoubtedly because having been dragged that far was more than a bit of a pain. His helmet trailed upward towards the lights. The man was visibly avoiding looking in the direction of his mangled leg, most likely because he knew that once he was sure of just how bad it was, the pain would be immensely worse. Knowing was better than not knowing, unless knowing meant panic.

Rommel himself sat down atop a crate that was marked as containing an AIE-486H, which would've been great if it was already assembled, and they wouldn't have to haul it to some position where it would actually _matter_, and be able to use it to any effect. For now, the thing would have to simply function as a bench. He let his head fall back, feeling his helmet sinking into the organic crap that coated the walls. He didn't care.

He glanced toward Miller and Almec, still standing. **"Close that damn door, will ya? Might as well make sure,"** he said tiredly. Miller punched the red button next to the door, and it swung shut. The locking mechanisms sounded, and then all was quiet for the most part. The only sounds Rommel could hear were his own heavy breathing, his blood pumping, and the disgusting movements of some of the pulsating sacs on the walls.

He didn't trust those after the incident in the tunnel. He knew what was in them. He just didn't know when they would come out.

He glanced at Findish out of the corner of his eye. The man's armor was visibly crushed around both his thigh and his calve. Mostly around his calve. That was without factoring in his chest and arm. His bad arm was bent at an angle that nobody needed question whether or not it was healthy. They were snapped in multiple places, definitely. Rommel did not doubt that bone would be visible, having impaled through the skin.

Despite that, he hoped that wasn't the case. His hopes didn't seem to be getting him very far tonight, however. Rather it seemed that ever time he got his hopes up, had any form of idea, he got the exact opposite of the intended results. He certainly had been hoping that the tunnels were free from the infection, but they weren't. In fact, they were worse than the surface.

In retrospect, he should have realized this to begin with. The tunnels would lead directly to the Supercarrier if they had taken the other route. More likely than not, they'd blown through the massive ship there, too, and made a much more direct route before they had even exited the ship on the surface. They had been infesting the tunnels before they had even encountered the first infected person. He couldn't remember the guy's name for the life of him anymore, which suited him just fine

It was starting to make a little more sense as to how it was spreading so fast. The further he delved into it, the more he didn't like the conclusions he was drawing. Because now he was faced with the cold, hard reality of it all. **"Son of a bitch,"** Rommel said out loud, not particularly caring whether or not heard him anymore.

Everyone looked toward him, waiting for a continuation of what he was going to say. With the exception of Findish, who continued staring blankly at the ceiling. The only indication that he was alive was his breathing, which was comparable to the villain of an old science fiction movie. That, and the hacking coughs he occasionally unleashed.

**"The spores were coming out of the ship before we even knew what they were. Nobody cared. Above the ground, underwater, everywhere. They've been at it so long that anyone in the Goddamn city- And parts beyond- would've started inhaling them hours before we even had a clue as to what was happening,"** Rommel explained, glancing at his chest. He traced over the deep gash through his armor. It filled him with unspeakable rage, a hardly contained fury. He wished that he hadn't been out of time, or he would've popped the giant himself.

**"Jesus Christ,"** he heard Almec say. **"Everyone in the city was breathing that shit without even thinking. Hell, it's probably in the Goddamn water supply if it's down here... Damn it, if that's the case, then that means-"**

** "That it's probably spread across half the continent by now at least. That's without factoring in the footmobiles, who've undoubtedly gained access to transportation fast enough to move from city to city." **Rommel sighed. **"I hate to say it. But I'm thinking-"**

** "Don't say it, Rommel."**

** "- That the message at Kovcheg is no longer accurate," **he said, pointing at Dom threateningly. **"And that the only reason that message is still running is because it's some kind of trap. Either by the Goddamn Office of Naval Intelligence, or by the parasites themselves."**

Dom pulled off his helmet, crossing the room from where he was standing to Rommel's position. He took Rommel by both shoulders, and pressed him against the wall. The man wasn't nearly as big as Rommel. He could easily have stopped him, or removed him. But there was no malevolent intent behind it, it was all just panic. **"What are you **_**saying,**_** Fullmetal?"**

Fullmetal. Dom only ever called him that when he meant business by it, or had to. Usually it referred to the fact that he was a Spook, and had a better understanding of how things were working than anyone else did. This was no different, Dom was trying to pull information out of him that he didn't know. Or what Rommel assumed could be true.

**"Look, I don't fuckin' know, but ONI don't exactly stand for **_**Overly Nice Individuals**_**, alright?"** he spat. **"They're the fuckin' Gestapo of the UNSC. For all we know, they're rounding up the civvies to put 'em down so the Goddamn infection can't spread."** It wasn't a completely unheard of tactic. To the organization that could feel no consequences, genocide seemed a small price to pay for making ends meet.

Another topic he tried not to think about. Sometimes Humans and the Covenant weren't really that far apart.

Dom released him with a bit of a shove, but he certainly did not back off. His emerald green eyes stared at Rommel accusingly. He didn't want to consider that the UNSC might do that, but he knew it was true. **"You said something else. That the parasites might be doing it. What's **_**that**_** all about?"**

Rommel shook his head slowly. **"It's possible, but I don't know how possible."**

** "Well then explain the **_**possibly possible**_** thing as best as you can, so we have an idea as to what sort of traps we **_**might**_** be **_**possibly**_** walking into,"** Dom said bitterly. Rommel didn't care for his tone of voice, but he couldn't particularly blame him, either.

He licked his lips under his helmet. He had a metallic taste in his mouth. Blood. When had he been bleeding? He prodded at the edged of his mouth with his tongue, and found that he'd busted his lip at some point. Not exactly inconceivable. Now that he knew it was there, however, it was going to bug the crap out of him.

It was amazing the things that ran through one's mind when under stress that had nothing to do with the matter at hand.

**"If it's not ONI rounding up the civvies to ensure the infection doesn't spread, either by protection or persecution,"** he began, chewing at his lip, **"then it's the infected, rounding up cattle for the slaughterhouse. And they've become smart enough to keep that tape rolling so that anyone who **_**does**_** receive it walks right into their clutches."**

Dom swore vividly, and walked off. He very nearly tripped over Findish, who grunted a few unintelligible, but nonetheless decidedly unappreciative words over the matter. Rommel just shook his head, checking his rifle. He remembered he hadn't used his MA2B, and so he didn't need to reload it. He sighed, then glanced at Findish. He moved over toward the man, then sat down next to him. The man looked toward him, his visor still depolarized from earlier.

It had more blood on it than Rommel had recalled. He gave a loud, wet cough, which filled up the visor even more. Rommel grimaced, then took the man's head in his hands. He tilted the man's head to the side, then popped the seals on the suit that made the system sealed and pressurized. He gingerly lifted the helmet up and off the man's head, then set the bucket down in the man's lap.

The man's eyes were completely red. He wouldn't have doubted it if he had popped a blood vessel or something along those lines. Crimson droplets formed in his nostrils, and streamed down from them to the man's mouth, and down his chin. His mouth hung slack, the inside of it a red that it shouldn't have been. He was definitely bleeding internally, fortifying Rommel's assumption: He'd probably punctured a lung, or torn up his insides some other way. **"How you holding up?"**

The man coughed again, loudly. **"I feel like shit," **he groaned, coughing loudly again. He still hadn't looked at his leg, best as Rommel could tell.

**"You **_**look**_** like shit,"** Rommel stated. **"But at least you're alive."** The man groaned, but said nothing. He frowned behind his visor, then looked around at all the different weapons. He wondered how the blasted things had managed to get in this room and spread this... Whatever it was. It was a matter that bothered him, because it meant that somebody else had to have_ already been here._

As he looked around, he could see a few of the weapons were missing. Maybe the armory wasn't fully stocked. It wasn't particularly obvious as to whether or not some presence had been here and taken them, apart from the fact that something had obviously gotten in here before to let in the parasite. Then came another thought that bothered him particularly badly.

He could get into just about anywhere he wanted by using a butchered version of his UNSCMID, a privilege of being part of the Office of Naval Intelligence- throwing the fact that he ranked low in it to the wind, mattering only in that he wasn't told everything- with the exception of some highly restricted areas. This rule applied to virtually every Spook, apart from the obviously incredibly high ranking.

And so the seed of another thought was rooted deeply in his mind:

Most hive-minded beings had a collective intelligence. These things were definitely hive-minded, if ever anything in the universe was. That meant that if one of them picked up a new trick, then _all_ of them should have picked up that trick. If one of them learned something important, _all_ of them knew the very same important thing. If one of them had a particular goal in mind, _all_ of them had the same goal.

That brought a very interesting concept forward. A question he could not answer as of now: Did the parasite retain the host's memories? Did they gain the knowledge their host previously had? If that was the case, then they were becoming more doomed by the minute. That meant that if someone who was particularly knowledgeable, high-up in the military domain, were to become infected...

Then the parasite would know everything that the individual knew.

Which could have easily explained why these... _Things_ were capable of going where they wanted, or getting into this room. He inwardly damned the idea, but it made sense. Especially if they _had_ already gotten to Kovcheg- If that was the case, they would've already infected _many_ high-ranking individuals, who had knowledge on subjects that Rommel didn't even know existed.

In other words, they were screwed.

Rommel took a moment to rummage through his combat webbing again, producing an old, leather-bound book that appeared so ancient, one was not to doubt if he explicitly said that it was as old as the universe itself. Stamped across the front of it in big, black block letters, clearly visible, was the word _FULLMETAL._ Below it, toward the bottom of the page, was a crudely scrawled, barely legible, extremely faded _Ed Rommel. _

To him, it almost seemed symbolic, speaking to him in volumes.

Almost.

He turned the thing over, glancing at the old lock on the side. It required a key. It didn't serve much purpose to lock it, it would've been broken easily if someone felt they wanted to see the contents of the old thing that badly. Not that there was anything all that important inside, the only contents were the thoughts, feelings, ideas, and sketches of an old soldier who might have been a little too sentimental for his own good that had been collected over the past forty-something years. The lock served only for him to know when somebody had invaded his private sanctum.

He drew three more objects from the same pouch: An architect pencil, a block eraser, and a key.

He first used the key to unlock the book, then turned to a fresh page. All of them were yellowing with age, but yet half of the book wasn't exactly used. The reasons for this was that he often had little of importance to record. He had already used the book once earlier today, while he was drifting in and out of consciousness back at the casino. Looking back, he was astonished he had managed.

But today, he found that keeping updates was important.

He began to make notes of anything he found to be particularly important to the moment. Where they were, what their condition was, their plan, his thoughts. Anything in particular that came to mind. Suddenly there was a loud cough next to him, and an entire section of what he had been writing disappeared, instead replaced by red spatters.

He glanced at Findish, who looked sincerely apologetic. At least, as much as he could manage to. **"Sorry," **the man said. **"I didn't mean-"**

**"That's alright,"** Rommel said patiently. **"Not something you could help." **_Although you could've not been looking over my damn shoulder._ That was alright, too. His fault for deciding to write while sitting right next to the man. He jotted down a final note, locked the journal, and stowed it along with the rest of the items he'd removed.

He then removed his rucksack, and opened it up. He began to rummage through it, pulling out his spare magazines. He'd marked each one for containing regular or Shredder rounds. Mixing them up would be horrid. He began to open the ammunition pouches that he'd used, and began to cram new magazines into them. He had plenty of ammo in case he needed it. He left the rucksack lying next to Findish.

Standing up, Rommel looked about the room. **"Okay, let's see here. What sorts of pretty things can we get to make the bad guys go away?" **he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. He whistled quietly as he began to make his way through the aisles. He had an MA2B, that was a good start, he supposed. He found one of the things he was looking for, and grinned wickedly at it, at the same time chuckling a bit. **"Hey, Findish? You're gonna be carryin' my ruck if I'm gonna have to drag you around. Start packin' anything you wanna keep into it."**

The man coughed sharply, most likely out of surprise. **"Now why in the Hell would I do that? Only ammo I got in mine is for the SRS99 n' for the M7. I can't snipe anymore, boss,"** Findish said, his voice cynical and weary at the same time. Rommel had taken all this into account, but didn't particularly care all that much. There was the sound of rattling coming from where Rommel had gone, and he couldn't see down that way.

**"Because," **Rommel said, the rattling continuing, **"I'm not going to be able to carry it anymore. I've got to make room."**

** "Oh, God, Rommel, don't tell me..."**

The giant of a man stepped back around the corner from the aisle he'd wandered down. He now stood with a huge device in his hands. A massive, cylindrical tank was strapped to his back, with a tube that extended from it to the device in his hands. Bandoliers of forty-millimeter grenades were looped around his belt, as well as over his shoulders. He was inserting a grenade into a slot on the left of the thing.

As Rommel toyed with the object, a blue flame jetted out of a small nozzle in front of the larger nozzle. **"Hey, look at that. Still works," **he said, a hint of glee put into his voice. He killed the flame, and then shifted the NA4 flamethrower in his hands. He looked toward Findish, rolling his shoulders a little.

**"Jesus Christ, Rommel. A **_**flamethrower?**_**" **Findish groaned in disbelief.

**"You guys keep usin' that guy's name like he's somebody important," **Rommel said darkly. It was a less-than-well-hidden fact that Rommel had no religious allegiance. His reasoning was complex. He claimed he was an Agnostic Atheist, which essentially was to say that while he was not entirely against the idea of any particular deity existing, he had not found any evidence nor had any good reason to believe one existed.

Given his long career and personal experiences- This one now falling in step with the rest- this was a perfectly rational view, as far as he was concerned. One of his common arguments was that if God loved Humanity so much, he wouldn't have created the aliens that now formed the Covenant. Another common statement was that if God created man in his image, he didn't want to know who he used as the basis for the same aliens.

He wished the best toward anyone with positive views, and was not generally negative toward them for it. However, given the fact that today he was not encountering regular aliens, but instead _alien zombies_, he felt that his lack of patience and general criticism was perfectly natural.

Findish looked up at Rommel disgustedly. He did not share the same views, though he was very flexible in his own. They had, on multiple occasions, had arguments on the old "No Atheists in Foxholes" slogan that had propagated so long ago. He glanced over the man slowly. He still had his MA2B, which was magnetically attached to the tank, angled in such a way that reaching it would not be difficult.

After a while, he finally broke his gaze to go into another coughing fit. As he finished, the man glanced down at his legs, and at his arm. He frowned slightly, narrowing his eyes in disappointment rather than despair. **"Looks heavy," **he said, wiping some of the blood off his face with the back of his hand.

**"You don't know the half of it," **Rommel said, still rolling his shoulders. He shifted his feet back and forth, adjusting his stance. He couldn't decide how he wanted to stand that would be most comfortable while he was carrying the thing. Then again, there was nothing comfortable about a flamethrower anyhow.

Miller appeared from another aisle of weapons. He was now carrying an XM510 Multishot Grenade Launcher, and had traded off his old M7S in favor of the MA5. He wasn't quite as heavily outfitted as Rommel, but he was better outfitted than he was before. The M7S wasn't good for much other than simple work. It hadn't proven to be much help to him thus far. He looked up from his own weapons towards Rommel. **"NA4? They still have those?"**

Rommel shrugged. **"Dated, impractical, but lethal. Planet's not exactly high on the UNSC's totem pole for defense. Probably scraping the bottom of the barrel to get what it has," **he said casually. He repressed the urge to comment on the fact that the planet only had about fifteen thousand military units altogether, which wasn't a very high amount. The total forces on the Supercarrier more likely than not were enough to outnumber the total forces of the planet. The total number of hostiles now most definitely did. He turned back to Findish. **"So, you gonna help me out, or not?"**

** "What the Hell do you need me to carry that for?" **

** "Because flamethrowers, unlike standard firearms, are a real bitch to carry around, and a pain in the ass when you run out of gun juice. With a standard firearm, you can reload. With a flamethrower, you need to refill the tank, a luxury I won't have, or you can refill the tank, another thing that isn't an option," **he said, rolling his head, his voice picking up the tone as though he were explaining it to a child. **"So, when this thing runs out of fuel, I'm going to want to be able to pick up another weapon and keep enough ammo for it in reserve to be useful for long periods of time."**

** "So I'm being reduced to a Human pack mule that can't walk."**

** "Can't walk, can't shoot, but can make a damn good ammo supply," **Rommel replied.

Findish looked away, as though he couldn't even believe what he was hearing. Rommel shrugged in response, and knelt down beside him, setting the flamethrower aside. The man didn't even have a rucksack on him, which was probably for the better. **"Look. I didn't mean nothing by it. But you ain't gonna be able to do your job, and we're gonna need help,"** he said slowly. He didn't add on the fact that they'd need even more help if they were going to have to keep him protected.

A long silence followed.

The man sighed loudly. **"I don't even know why you guys are bothering to keep me around, I'm dead weight. But fine. Get the damn thing on me, and I'll carry it 'til I'm dead."**

** "That's the spirit,"** Rommel said. He turned the man around, and took the rucksack- which he'd left lying there for that very purpose- and clipped the thing to the back of the man's armored vest. **"Done. Now, if everyone's rea-"**

There was the sound of locks being undone that broke the silence. Everyone brought their weapons to bear, and pointed their guns at the door. There was the sound of the door opening, but the damn thing wasn't moving.

There was another door somewhere in the room that had just opened.

Someone or something was in the room with them.


	12. Newcomers

The air in the armory seemed to stop flowing, time itself seeming to stand still. Nobody moved an inch, weapons readied in different areas. The only indicator Rommel had that time was passing was the fact that the clock built into his HUD was still ticking, and the little blue flame at the tip of the flamethrower still flickered. He was unconsciously holding his breath, afraid that the sound of his breath would seep through the helmet, even if sealed.

There was the sound of heavy footfalls, clunking through the door, followed by the sound of one of those now-easily-identified inhuman wails... But the wail came from somewhere well outside the door, and far off. That seemed odd, since the footsteps were coming from inside the room.

**"Shit, close the door! **_**Now!**_**"** a voice said, coming from that direction, quickly followed by another roar.

**"I'm trying!"** said a second. **"It won't close any faster!"**

This piqued Rommel's interest more than it had before. They were talking, conversing. They were also panicked. These were all the characteristics of a Human trying to get the Hell away from the parasites, the zombies, or whatever Hellish monsters they had otherwise yet to see. Humans meant friendlies, regardless of origin.

Despite that, he remained suspicious, with legitimate reason.

He glanced toward Almec, and gestured to take the left-most aisle. The man nodded, disappearing in that direction. He then looked toward Miller, and pointed toward the right-most aisle. He moved down it without saying anything. He looked down at Findish, holding up a finger and pressing it to where his lips would be in a hushing gesture. The man gripped his M7 in one hand, clutching it close to his chest.

With that, Rommel moved down the center aisle.

As he remembered, moving with the NA4 proved to be awkward, but it wasn't terrible. One had to sort of hunch over in order to hold it in a good grip and keep it aimed straight, since it was held at waist-level. Foot placement was essential, since he had to sort of shuffle his feet in order to move forward. The NA4 was heavy as all Hell, but it wasn't all that surprisingly so.

Finally, he saw the intruders.

Most of them were clad in urban camouflage, and wore the olive drab armor that signified them as part of the Marine Corps. Others had more tan armor, which signified them as being Army. Some of them had full gear, while others were a little less well-equipped. Some of them had tattered and torn armor... One of them lacked the entire upper portion of their armor, and was bleeding all over the place. Upon closer inspection, he actually _did_ have part of his uniform around his upper body. It was being used as a tourniquet, because his left arm was completely gone from the bicep down.

The door shut, and the three people- Five in total had come through the door- were holding it shut. One man with an MA37- Rommel could identify it by its more skeletal design- was guarding it, while the second- The man with one arm- slammed the red button. A red light went on above the door, and the group took several steps back. The man with one arm spun around, not paying attention, and collided with Rommel.

Rommel was able to balance himself by taking a step back. The one-armed man hit the ground, and started swinging something wrapped in what appeared to be blood-soaked military fatigues around as a club. **"Shit! Get the Hell away from me!"** the man screamed, swinging ferociously.

Rommel could only hope the man wasn't swinging his severed arm as a makeshift bat.

**"Chill, mate, we're **_**friendlies**_**," **Rommel offered, the swinging object making fleshy slapping sounds as it came in contact with his armor. As the next blow came, he grabbed the wrapped thing, and snatched it out of the man's grasp. It definitely felt like an arm. Rommel had no desire to figure out why he was carrying this to use as a blunt instrument.

The man finally stopped, and it was only then that Rommel became even completely aware that the other men were all aiming their weapons at him. He'd realized it on some subconscious level, as he always was aware when he had a weapon pointed at him. He looked up at them, and nodded at his flamethrower. **"You wanna use those fuckin' things, or are ya just gonna stand around all day debatin' on whether or not to shoot me?"**

The men looked back and forth between each other, then the man on the ground started laughing a little. Rommel looked down at him, but kept his grip on the flamethrower with his trigger hand, kept it pointed at the other men. He knew the sling wouldn't be enough to keep it steady, but he felt a Hell of a lot more secure that way.

**"Lower yer weapons, boys,"** said One-Arm. **"He's safe." **Rommel wouldn't have exactly considered himself _safe. _He felt like he was batshit insane, on the verge of a breakdown, and more than ready to go on a Roaring Rampage of Revenge for Campbell, and most likely soon enough for Findish. So far he was only keeping his cool because he knew there had to be greener pastures ahead, a brighter outlook, something _positive_ just _had_ to manifest itself.

The door gave a resounding pang as heavy bodies threw themselves against it, quickly followed by scraping sounds. At the same time, Almec and Miller appeared from the other weapon racks. They'd had him covered the whole time, just in case. He knew they would.

**"You brought friends?"** Rommel said casually, glancing at the door. It was about a foot and a half's worth of reinforced steel, they wouldn't be getting through that any time soon. Nonetheless, hearing the sounds of the inhuman things so close and yet out of reach was a bit... Nerve-racking, to say the least. He offered a hand to One-Arm to help him to his feet.

**"Friends once, not now," **the man said, accepting the gesture. Rommel pulled him to his feet with ease, despite his size. He was a big, burly man, with a barrel chest, potbelly gut, and arms- Well, _an _arm- reminiscent of an Elephant. He was definitely some kind of military personnel. Rommel wanted to guess Army, given what was left of his brown armor. He gestured toward the stump of his old arm. **"Came down here, they fell over, got back up, n' one of 'em ripped my damn arm off."**

He shook his head. He was pale from blood loss. **"Anyhow, I'm Captain Lager, Third Battalion, Second Company. We're all that's left."**

Rommel nearly took a step back in amazement. **"You're **_**all**_** that's left?"**

** "That's what I said, son. Ain't nobody else who's left alive."**

** "The transmissions on the radio...?"**

The entire group seemed to sort of go rigid at those words. Their expressions were mildly disappointed. Lager looked over his shoulder at them, then back at Rommel. He ran his hand over the top of his bald head in contemplation. **"Well, there ain't no easy way to say this, so I'll just go ahead and say it." **He stepped forward, locking eyes with Rommel.

**"We **_**just came **_**from Kovcheg."**

Rommel felt his head swimming with questions, wanting answers to so many more questions. Why had the men been at the base? Why had they left? What was happening there? What _did_ happen there? Had it been a set-up of some sort? Had ONI made _any_ significant progress to coming up with something to combat the threat?

He didn't get the chance to ask, because the man started elaborating.

**"Most of us, we was at the airfield, overseeing the transport outta there," **said Lager, wiping his hand across his face. He shook his head again. **"Those ships went airborne... And some kinda pod punched a hole clean through the lead bird, took out one of its engines. Thing came down hard, slammed right into the next in line. Then more of the pods started fallin' outta the sky, we don't even know where from..."**

Rommel stood, stone faced, for what felt like a minute. It would've been silent, if it weren't for the bastards outside pounding on the door. Lager laughed a little bit, as though he'd thought of something funny, but Rommel recognized it as the type of laugh typical of nervous men, or those who thought it was too unreal. Rommel spoke first. **"Pods like the ones up there, on the walls?"** he asked, gesturing to a pod next to him.

The man looked up, then nodded, but didn't speak. One of the men behind him, a Marine who had the emblem of a Sergeant emblazoned on his sleeve, did. **"They're full of those bugs. Damn things hit the ground and started eating people, or close enough,"** he said, glancing at what Rommel recognized as the MA5C in his hands. **"And if they managed to get a hold of a body, same thing. People got back up off the ground, and started attacking **_**us.**_**"**

The man shrugged. Lager regained his composure. **"So the other transports, they panicked, tried to take off. Same thing as the first time, they got ripped in half. By that point we were getting' hit by footmobiles from all around, vehicles, too. Nothin' scarier than a Covvie tank alongside one of ours shellin' us and the transports. Either way, there wasn't anythin' left by the end of the hour."**

Rommel's expression melted a little. **"So you ran."**

The man's head snapped at him, his eyes narrowing. **"It wasn't **_**like that**_**,"**he snapped, snatching his gift-wrapped arm from out of Rommel's hands. He pointed at him with the end of it, his mouth contorting into a somewhat hostile form. **"They **_**overran **_**our position, and we were **_**screwed.**_** They **_**ripped my arm off.**_** Wasn't anythin' left to defend. Couldn't go back into the base, too many hostiles between. Sure as shit weren't stayin' where we were!" **he exclaimed, then looked at the arm. He dropped it beside him, evidently deciding it wasn't worth keeping. **"So we figured anywhere was better than where we were. Boy were we wrong."**

Rommel could sympathize with the man. They had been trying to get to Kovcheg, thinking it couldn't be worse than what they had to work with at the time. Evidently, they'd been wrong, too. **"While you were up there... Had ONI figured anything out about how to fight these things?"** he asked, less than hopeful.

**"Said they're all made of "biomass," whatever the fuck that means," **the Sergeant said. **"So's that shit out there. Guess that means they're all organic, so they're soft targets. But they don't have the usual reactions of soft targets, they-"**

** "They get ripped apart, shot up, blown apart, drilled through, any combination of the above, and they don't care,"** Almec interrupted.

**"Right. Bullets, fuck it, they don't care. AP's useless, won't even tear 'em up like it should. Standard rounds seem to just piss 'em off. Their insides are all liquid, nothing solid. Heck, even their bones are gone for some of 'em. Only thing that's holding them together is the fact that their skin seems to be like glue," **said the Sergeant. **"They're rotting inside and outside. You might tear off a limb, but it ain't gonna slow it down none."**

**"But we didn't find any real way to combat 'em, did we?" **Rommel asked, deciding he just wanted to get to the point.

The Sergeant adjusted the cap atop his head. **"I'm afraid not. By the time they managed to round up a few specimen and do any tests on 'em, we were under attack. Maybe they held out, maybe not. Maybe they locked themselves in a dark room to do tests, maybe they got screwed before then." **The man shrugged. **"Either way, we didn't get a damn bit of information."**

Rommel swore under his breath, turning away. He suddenly realized that everything was quiet. The banging sounds had stopped. There was a low, rumbling sound for a moment, which turned into a lower inhuman wail. It was coming from within the room.

Rommel turned slowly, and the wail escalated into a rumbling laugh from a deep voice.

Legs broken, arm mangled, chest caved in slightly, and helmetless, Mark Findish was a sight to be seen... Especially given the fact that he was standing up, right in the middle of the aisle. He didn't move, but rather just watched. His eyes were glazed over, his mouth moving only slightly. This mattered little, given the fact that his head lulled to one side. Out from a hole in his neck and chest area protruded the sensory stalks.

_**"You continue to hide, continue to run..."**_said a voice that Rommel had never heard before, seemingly emitted from Findish. _**"But this fate you cannot escape, all shall become one." **_Findish made a step forward, flesh audibly squishing, bone audibly crunching. He seemed unhampered by his injuries. _**"Submit, and all shall end quickly."**_

__Nobody moved against it, but nobody moved toward it. A low, almost bleating sound began, and a sea of the parasites began to swarm around Findish's feet. Rommel grit his teeth, and readied the flamethrower. **"Sorry, Findish." **He pulled the trigger, and swung the flamethrower left to right for a second or two. As he released the trigger, he saw Findish running at him, arms outstretched.

He took a step back, and the infected man slammed hard into the ground as its legs crumbled, having been incinerated inside the armor, which was now serving as a convection oven. Not-Findish continued to screech its inhuman wail, dragging itself forward with its hands. Finally, its hands crumbled too, and its arms, and so on until all that was left was a smoldering pile of armor filled with ashes and cinders.

Rommel looked at the ceiling, rolling his neck and groaning slowly, which in turn transformed into a cry of rage. He punted one of the scorched forearm plates from the burning man across the room, then slammed himself full force into one of the weapon racks.

It pained him to have to do that... But he'd had no choice, dammit. Findish had become one of them, he wasn't _Findish anymore._ Someone behind him spoke up. **"I ain't ever heard one of 'em speak before..." **said one of the other Army soldiers or Marines, he wasn't sure which. He didn't particularly care, either. He felt this black rage building up in his gut, hot and burning away at his insides.

He looked up slowly, toward the newcomers. The pounding and wailing continued again, this time with a lot more viciousness than before, and much more determination.

**"How'd you guys get here?" **Rommel asked quietly. **"By foot, or you got a ride?"**

** "We got a pair of '831's up there. Seen better days, but they work," **said the Captain. **"Why, what do you have in mind?"**

** "I want to make sure nobody survived at Kovcheg. If anybody survived at all, then we might be able to help them," **Rommel said, moving toward the Captain. The flames burning behind him made him look like the spawn of Satan himself, coming forth from the depths of Hell. **"If all else fails, we might be able to get the fuck off the planet somehow. I don't know how, but somehow."**

Someone tapped on his shoulder. He turned slowly to look, and a pair of dog tags were dangling in front of him, scorched and nearly unrecognizable. Nonetheless he could make out Findish's name. Attached to the end of them was Almec's arm. The man knew Rommel collected the tags of fallen comrades if their bodies couldn't be recovered.

He preferred bodies, to give proper funerals, but if nothing else he could either send the tags to the family, or keep them to honor them himself.

He took the tags- Which were still hot from the fire- and stuffed them into a pouch on his armor.He turned to the rest of the guys, who were still surrounding the door. The door began to pound louder. Rommel gestured to the button. **"On the count of three, hit it, we'll torch 'em. Move quickly, stay together. One of you guys'll take point once the area's clear, and run like a mother to wherever you got your vehicles parked."**

One of the men nodded, holding up his hand. **"I'll take point."**

Another one moved to the button. Rommel began to count. **"Three... Two... One... **_**Go!**_**"**

The door swung open, and Rommel pulled the trigger, unleashing a tsunami of fire against the horde bearing down on them.


	13. Bat Outta Hell

The cityscape soared by as the M831 zoomed across the freeway. This road more or less spanned the entire planet. It was massive, with four lanes on either side, and created with a few lessons from long ago. Rather being a long, straight road that spanned forever, it would occasionally have a few curves and turns so as to keep drivers on their toes, keep them from drifting off. This prevented many accidents, which would be almost certainly fatal on a road such as this.

Rommel sat rigidly in the seat of the troop transport. He was riding in the rear troop compartment to accommodate his gear. He had to remove the fuel tank of the flamethrower in order to even sit down. He gripped his MA2B tightly in one hand, cleaning its various components with a rag with his other. He was trying to keep himself calm while deciding what they'd do once they got to Kovcheg.

The main hangar was underground, which meant that unless the blasted runway gates had been left open by some miracle, they'd have to travel through the inside of the base to get to the hangar sublevel. To save time and effort, they would most likely head up to the command center, as well as the flight deck. They'd have to make sure there was a ship there that was space-worthy and prepped for lift-off, and then open up the gates.

Of course, if they couldn't find one, then that meant bad things.

_**/"Hey, Rommel! Guess what?"/**_

__Rommel shook his head violently as the voice raked through his eardrums, loud and electronic. He'd been so absorbed in thought that he had forgotten about everything else. **"Yeah, what? What is it?"** he asked Miller.

/_**"You still ain't figured it out? The comms're up again!"**_/

Rommel blinked twice. He was receiving through his helmet's radio, which was where Miller's voice was coming from. He looked up, seeing him in the second transport in the adjacent lane. They had agreed it would be safest to split into two different vehicles to increase their odds of survival, in the event that one went down for whatever reason. Rommel and Dom had jumped into one of them, Miller and several of the other Army and Marines in the other.

/_**"When the Hell did that happen?"**_/

This time it was Almec's voice.

/_**"No idea, I was just scanning through and realized I was receiving another broadcast, loud and clear. This is great, we can finally keep coordinated easier."/**_

__Rommel thought about it. **"What's the message saying?"**

/_**"Same ol' shit. ONI Kovcheg, no infection, safe haven, blah, blah, blah."**_/

Rommel let out a loud grunt in frustration. **"Just means we got another temporary window, or they're fucking with us again. I don't like it, but I'll take it at face value for now. If they're gonna play games, they'll play games. Either way they got the advantage right now, so if they're listening in on our comms, then fuck it. Let 'em, ain't gonna make a huge difference anyhow."**

There was some frustrated grumbling over the comms.

/_**"Y'know, even fer a Spook, ya ain't got much positive to say there, Fullmetal.**__"_/

Rommel recognized the voice of Captain Lager over the radio. **"Been in the war almost fifty years, sir. Started off in the Marine Corps, upgraded to Special Forces shortly after. Black ops shit, policy was to stay dark. Only became a Spook when that fell apart, been that way the majority of my time as a member of our Glorious-Government-of-Outer-Space Military. Time ****tends to give you... **_**Perspective**_** on how many things **_**could**_** happen."**

/_**"Fifty years? Hell, you don't look it, ya pessimist sunuvabitch."**_/

This talk was relatively standard in Rommel's experience. Once anybody revealed their role as an Office of Naval Intelligence Operative, they generally lost the trust and respect of anyone they spoke to. Spooks knew things other people didn't, were always out for their own well-being, were almost always paranoid, and were widely regarded as sell-outs. Rommel himself had traded his Special Operations experience for the ONI life- Though he damn well made a habit out of making it harder on himself than he needed to.

Rommel _liked_ work in the field. He'd been a Naval Lieutenant once before, and to get that rank he'd had to go through a lot of time in the OCS back on Luna. During the few _years_ he had spent there, he realized just how boring paperwork was, how dull having a desk job would be, and how utterly pointless it all felt in comparison to doing _real_ work.

Not to say he hadn't worked his ass off. He could've been a Captain, if it weren't for the fact that the UNSC didn't need more of them- Due in part to a lack of ships- and the fact that Rommel had a bad tendency to work very independently of his superiors. He did not appreciate orders very well, and had been known to voice his opinions a little too verbally on many occasions. On many more occasions, if he didn't like his orders, he'd twist them to suit him and his squad better.

If he had an objective of his own, he'd twist his agenda to fit it in, regardless of his orders.

Overall, he wasn't the typical Spook. He wasn't overly paranoid, he didn't obsess over the chain of command, he didn't obsess over orders, and he sure as Hell didn't want some cushy desk job that put him out of the line of fire. Because _that _was a boring life that he had no desire for.

**"Cryo's even better than those creams they say'll make you look younger, Cap'n,"** Rommel replied dryly. He was always amused with people's reactions to his statement, but today was different. Today he didn't care. **"Might call me sort of a Winter soldier. On ice when I got free time, thawed out when I'm needed." **Glancing around at the ice and snow packed roads, he quickly added: **"No pun intended."**

There was a decidedly long, drawn-out silence. Rommel settled into the uncomfortable bench of the vehicle, deciding that he had most likely heard the end of that discussion. He closed his eyes slowly, half-tempted to doze off and try to relax. But then they snapped open, and he shook his head violently. If he let himself do that, he'd be a dead man.

Stay alert, stay focused. Eyes on environment.

/_**"Senior?"**_/

It was the Captain's voice again. Rommel rolled his eyes. **"What is it, Cap'n?"**

/**_"That was the corniest bullshit I ever heard."_**/

He could hear roaring laughter coming from a few of the men, who had apparently tuned in their communications devices at some point. When it faded, Rommel shrugged, chuckling a bit himself. **"Aye, Cap'n. But it's a classic. 'Sides, ONI told me to say it 'cause it sounded cool," **he said, his voice good natured, as though he had no idea what he had said.

There were a few snorts at that.

/**_"Yeah, well. Long as we're tellin' people to say what to who, you can tell ONI to sit on a fireplace poker."_**/

Rommel was not familiar with that voice. One of the other troopers, he supposed. **"I'll be sure to take that under advisement."**

He became vaguely aware of something behind him, and turned his head to glance. He caught a glimpse of Almec shaking his head at him. Suddenly the man's head snapped up, and looked out toward the buildings. **"The fuck's your problem?"** he asked briefly, witnessing the man's sudden reach for the M247 that he had been insistent they brought with them before having left the weapon cache.

**"Saw movement. But it wasn't... I don't know,"** he said, not bothering to have said so over the comms. He shook his head again, this time at himself. He relinquished his grip on the GPMG, but stroked the XM510 that he held in his lap instead. **"Think I just imagined it. I hope to God I did. Because it was big... And airborne."**

_Big._

So far today Rommel had seen a hulking behemoth that essentially amounted to a wall charging at him with lethal intent, and a towering giant that was all but bulletproof and had razor whips for arms. He had seen a Covenant Supercarrier crash. Hell, he could still see the Supercarrier from where he was sitting.

Therefore, to him something under the classification of _"big"_ was not saying much, though generally it meant _"bigger than what we've seen so far."_ That was a terrifying prospect.

_Flying._

Rommel had admittedly not seen any flying hostiles today, not counting the Falcon or the stupid little spores that had crashed said Falcon. In either event, he dismissed these things quickly, because they were not _true _flying hostiles. The Falcon might be capable of flight, but it was very identifiable as well.

The thought conjured up a mental image of an excavation-type Scarab that the Covenant had mounted repulsorlift systems onto, causing it to soar through the sky like something out of a Biblical curse. Not something he wanted to run into armed with only a few rifles, a General Purpose Machine Gun with limited munitions available, a flamethrower, and a pair of grenade launchers.

Rommel took a moment to pull his boots out of the snow that was accumulating around his ankles. **"Wonderfully descriptive. The observational powers are strong in this one," **Rommel said sarcastically. He flicked on the comms again. **"Alright, everyone. Dom thinks he saw movement, so we may have company. Look out for something _big_ and _airborne._"**

** "Rommel..." **

** _"Fullmetal," _**Rommel corrected, scraping a large collection of snow from off his shoulders. He was also acutely aware that his visor was beginning to frost over around the corners, and so he began to see if he could manage to scrape it off with his combat knife. Normally he didn't care much for what people called him, but at the moment he wasn't in the mood for niceties.

**"Whatever, _Desert Space-Fox_,"** Almec said briefly. **"I know you're frustrated with all this, but-"**

** "Frustrated? I'm not frustrated," **Rommel interrupted, sheathing his knife. The frost had come off easily. **"Space zombies created from space barnacles that come from somewhere in space, bringing my men back from the dead to try and kill me? Why should I be?"**

** "_Anyway,_"** Almec continued. **"But just try to keep a grip on it. You and I both know how well you work with limited resources and time in situations that don't suit you."**

** "Damn fine, that's how I work."**

** "Last time you were frustrated by a situation, you solved it by throwing a package of _highly volatile explosives_ into a _nuclear reactor,_" **Almec chided, turning to face Rommel as much as he could when they had their backs to each other and the benches dividing them.

**"It made a beautiful blue explosion that reminded me of a butterfly,"** Rommel recalled, as if the statement completely dismissed the accusation. When Dom stayed silent, he decided to continue. **"And hey, it blew up the whole Spire structure the Covenant had set up on the ground. Cleared the way for a lotta troops."**

** "A month before _that _you got tired of an Innie not giving answers to questions, threatened to shove a knife up his ass, twist it, and then put biofoam into it and keep going 'til he would talk. And that was _before _you jammed a thermite grenade in his mouth and said you'd pop it."**

** "He had valuable information on the cell from back in '45. Too good to pass up. He wasn't talking, so I started to play rough. _Nothing_ is too much when it comes to the '45 case. Fuckers callin' themselves the _Human League_ had so many incidents of crimes against Humanity that if the words were solid they coulda used 'em as blocks n' built their fuckin' rat nest out of 'em. 'Sides, when he didn't speak, _you_ shot him in the head."**

The Human League was a group of extremists who thought they knew what was best for the Human race. They thought that UNSC rule was unjust, imposing too many new laws and policies on civilians due to the war. They'd been known since 2535, but hadn't been actively violent for ten years, so the UNSC classified them as malcontents and moved on- Ignoring them, like it ignored many problems it didn't need to immediately deal with.

Like many of those other problems, this was a big mistake.

Turned out the Human League had people on the inside. Not just inside the military, but inside the Office of Naval Intelligence. They were given information on troop movements, UNSC's plans, and plenty of supplies. Most of the supplies were outdated, but lethal. HMG-38s, MA37s, M202s, things that wouldn't usually be noticed or missed. A few of their more "elite" units were issued M19s, and their best snipers were equipped with M99 SASR units.

_Those _fuckers had been a real pain in Ion Team's ass.

They'd also been issued a pair of Longsword starfighters. These starfighters had no weaponry equipped, but instead had a few megatons' worth of payload carried in the form of two HAVOK nuclear warheads, one per fighter. Their plan was to send in the Longswords to key locations on a suicide run, arming the nuclear warhead and slamming into whatever target they had chosen. This had ensured detonation, and the complete annihilation of any surrounding landscape.

In case that plan didn't work out for them, they'd also stolen seven MFDDs, of FURY nukes. Those things were about the size of a football. They intended to place them in the heart of several cities across the planet, capitol cities, and blow them all at the same time. It didn't matter what the repercussions were, because they were striking out against the UNSC.

Nor did it matter whose lives they were fucking with.

Ion had been the primary team sent in to take care of the threat.

The Human League had gotten clumsy. A few of its members decided they didn't believe in the League's ideals anymore, and tipped off the UNSC. Unfortunately, as noble as this action was, the word got around to the people who had infiltrated ONI. They hadn't transported the materials to their designated locations yet, instead having holed them up in their makeshift base. To buy time, they started kidnapping people. Men, women, children. Politicians, military, civilians. The exact numbers weren't known- But they made it clear they wanted the UNSC to back off.

By the end of the conflict, there were only five civilian casualties, most of them having been killed before Ion's arrival, and a twice that number injured out of about a hundred captured. All of the nuclear weapons had been secured, and all of the located stolen ordnance was taken back. Unfortunately, many of the scumbags had run off during the fighting.

The turncoats within ONI were never identified. Whoever it was had decided to lay low- Or no longer had access to their usual methods.

_Every_ opportunity he received, Rommel pursued leads on Human League survivors, and moreover, the identity of the double-crossers.

Nothing was too much when it came to hunting them down.

**"Oh my God..."** Dom muttered. **"Oh my God, over there!"**

Rommel looked up briefly, and felt his jaw drop instantly as he saw a _massive_ form moving across the cityscape. It was shapeless, like a cloud, moving at its own will and nothing more. The massive shape began to split into separate pieces, each darting off in its own direction. At that moment Rommel recognized what he was looking at: A _swarm._

**"Can't you make this thing go any faster?"** Rommel shouted, banging on the metal frame of the vehicle rapidly. Without any form of shielding, he felt extremely exposed. Especially now, with this swarm of... Whatever-the-fucks flying around. He didn't know what the Hell they were or how they acted, but he didn't trust it. Not one bit.

Suddenly there was a loud screech, so loud that the sound dampeners in Rommel's helmet could not fully block it out. It was like a thousand bats all sounding off at once, but yet it had a somewhat unnatural quality to it.

Rommel understood, and while he wished that this was an APC rather than a troop transport, he now had a new-found appreciation for the lack of any shielding.

The vehicle veered sharply, and Rommel cleared his throat. **"Gentlemen, we have a problem to the East..." **he said calmly into his radio. At least, he thought it sounded calm. He hoped it did, because he felt like spouting blasphemies.

/_**"Oh, shit. Please don't tell me that-"**_/

**"It- They- are."**

/_**"The fuck are we gonna do, Fullmetal? There ain't any way to kill 'em all."**_/

He pulled himself into a crouch, and strapped the fuel canister for the flamethrower onto his back. He attached the fuel line to the weapon itself, and adjusted the unit to its greatest distance and width settings possible in combination with one another. He stood up fully, and clipped himself to the roll cage of the vehicle. He predicted things were going to get bumpy, and that he'd need as much balance as possible.

If all else failed they could drag him along like a fucking car being towed.

He considered the statement briefly, shaking his head. **"Probably not, no. Where's the nearest exit ramp?" **Normally he would've suggested to just drive the damn vehicles off the freeway, but the fact that it was an elevated freeway meant the idea did not bring much hope. If they toppled over the side, they'd suffer heavy injuries. Death wasn't necessarily guaranteed, the Warthog was the tank of the four-wheeled vehicle Kingdom.

At least, it wasn't guaranteed for people in the front seats. For the people in the roll cage, they'd be red streaks across the pavement.

The people in the front, on the other hand, would simply have their necks snapped at impossible angles, their backs broken, and their internal organs ruptured from the sheer force. Or something like that. Rommel wasn't an expert on ground vehicles and the way crashes might affect its passengers, his vehicle specialty was in flying things. Even then he seemed to have a great piloting record, he crashed more vehicles than he landed.

In his defense, when he _was _flying, it was usually because they needed an emergency entrance or get-away, or their usual pilot was incapacitated. In any case it was in enemy-occupied, fire-heavy zones. He could proudly report that no friendlies had ever died in a crash with him at the helm, which was quite a statement- There had been a _lot_ of crashes with him at the helm.

Hostiles, on the other hand, were not so fortunate.

Ironic, given that his parents were piloting geniuses, their entire businesses revolving around aircraft.

They hadn't wanted him to join the UNSC.

Inwardly, he frequently wondered if he subconsciously purposely crashed ships in spite of them.

**"You fucking deaf? Where's the nearest Goddamn exit ramp?" **he shouted more loudly, not caring who answered him at this point. The swarm of _things_ visibly _ripped _through a building- Shattering windows, carving walls, demolishing structures. This did not inspire hope for their _non-_APC vehicle, with its open front seats and troop carriage.

The swarm was starting to change direction toward the road.

/_**"Twenty miles at least, sir. What's the plan?"**_/

The voice of the driver did not inspire hope either.

**"Floor it. All units, prepare for an engagement. This ain't gonna be easy. Maybe if we pick enough of 'em off we can show 'em why nobody fucks with the Helljumpers, oorah?"**

/_**"Oorah!"**_/

Rommel shifted his feet so as to stand in the fashion of Captain Morgan on the transport 'Hog's bench. He gave the line that secured him to the vehicle a good strum, and was met with a loud twang that confirmed the line was not very slack. He wouldn't fall out the side, at least.

Rommel ignited the pilot light for the flamethrower, and let a grin cross his face. He wasn't enjoying this in the least, no; He just liked watching stuff _burn._

The swarm was closing in. The massive shape was beginning to become identifiable as many, many smaller forms that composed the whole group. Monstrous little creatures, with clear, fleshy wings, beady black eyes, and legs like the blades of scythes.

As the swarm came within range, close enough to where he was practically nose to nose with the lead _Bat-Outta-Hell,_ there was only one thing on his mind about them that stood about above the rest. One reason why he felt truly threatened, even as he pulled the trigger and began to ignite as many members of the swarm as possible to turn them into falling piles of ash, even as their loud screech began to echo through his skull:

Teeth. Huge fucking teeth, like stalagmites and stalactites in a dark, foreboding cave.

They frenzied.


	14. Through the Woods, Into the River?

If someone had told Rommel as he stood burning these winged little monsters, these miniature Harpies, that the screeching he was forced to endure, this high-pitched sound that caused his ears to ring, filling all the air around him, was caused by these little creatures, he would have slapped them, called them a liar, and dropped them off a cliff for telling him such terrible lies.

If someone had told Rommel that a paranormal- Rather than a Covenant- banshee was standing directly behind him, screaming directly into his ears, he would have laughed and bellowed about how impossible it was for a single entity to create such a loud, head-splitting, deafening tone, and that he would have already disposed of it.

In return, Rommel would tell them the truth. The sound that pierced his skull was the sound of the entirety of Hell, the sounds of its damned, tortured, imprisoned, eternally burning inhabitants all crying out at once in their most painfully agonizing tones possible, and of the Devil and all his minions laughing at them in glee in their demented tones.

Surely that had to be the case.

Rommel was not religious.

Wielding the mighty, fire-spitting beast in his hands, Rommel felt as though the weapon he held was no longer a weapon, but certainly the embodiment and source of Lucifer and any Demons he had at his disposal, and each pull of the trigger opened up the Gates of Hell just long enough to engulf anything it was pointed at in flames and consume them instantly. These noise-making _things_ were using the voices of those trapped forever in the other realm to make clear their hatred, make known the response of the damned to their punishment.

As another swarm swooped down to attack, Rommel pivoted slightly, and pulsed the trigger. A bright orange jetstream roared out of the nozzle, and another ear-piercing shriek ravaged his ears. Some of the bat-like things disintegrated, while others fell to the road in their death throes, no longer capable of flight.

An explosion thundered overhead, opening a gap in the cloud of Hellspawn. Rommel didn't need to ask, he knew it came from Almec's XM510. The man was using timed shots so that they would pop in mid-air, rather than on impact. The swarm, however, was quick to close the gap, and swooped in with greater force.

One suddenly clamped onto Rommel's forearm, having gotten through his defenses. **"Ah, fuck," **he muttered as the thing gnawed and clawed at the steel. He reeled his arm back, and slammed it against the roll cage. The thing's trap-jaw lost grip, and it fell to the floor, batting its wings around like a fish out of water. Rommel brought up his boot, and in one swift motion, crushed the entire midsection of the beast- Head and torso crushed thoroughly.

It stopped thrashing.

No sooner than he had, another came at him. It clawed wildly at his helmet, carving gashes into his visor that caused static to flare up on his HUD. He got a nice look at the inside of its mouth from this point of view, and was largely disturbed to discover that it didn't appear to have any insides. It was just a flying sack with teeth.

He tried to knock it away, but it kept coming back. And then another, and another.

**"**_**Goddamn**_** it, Almec, help me!"** Rommel hissed as he batted another away. None of them were penetrating his armor, or even finding vital points on him for all their effort, but he was afraid they might potentially puncture his fuel pack, or chew through his tether, or worse. That was when something worse happened: One found that his joints were far less armored.

Then it tried to clamp down on his right shoulder, which was less armored.

He reeled as he felt several tooth points pierce through the light kevlar plating, and ripped his knife out of its sheath with his left hand. He reached back behind him and made a stab for the thing's face, missing and slashing through a wing. The thing screeched so loud that his ears rang, and he made three more jabs. The last jab coated his shoulder in something reminiscent of blood, and he didn't hear the thing anymore.

Unfortunately, the others caught on, and another tried to rip into his underarm- And succeeded.

Rommel let out a sharp cry, bringing his arm in tight in an attempt to crush it, and at the same time felt something slam hard into his knees. He bucked off his feet, and for a second hung over the side of the transport. He swung his knife at the air, where several were bearing down on him. The air was not exploding anymore, and he heard Dom yelling something on the other side, where he could not hear.

Rommel became vaguely aware that he was screaming something, and realized it wasn't something. It was just screaming in pain and fear, something he had forgotten he was capable of. He thrashed about on the ground for something, _anything_ that could make them stop. He still had the knife. The knife was his friend. Where was his flamethrower? It had been in his right hand, now it wasn't. It was attached to the tank, the tank was on his back, so it wasn't gone.

Slashing wildly, Rommel was certain he was hitting things- But he knew they were stabbing him more with their teeth than he was with his knife. Despite screaming out in pain, it didn't hurt- He was just more aware of the punctures than he was feeling the pain. Suddenly he felt his hand strike something else- He gripped at it briefly. _The flamethrower!_

He dug the knife deep into the padding of the seats, and gripped the flamethrower.

He came to a grim realization: The flamethrower couldn't hit the ones on him. Not without hitting him, too. Then _he'd _be on fire, too. Napalm-induced flames could be... Well, unbearably hot. The flames themselves weren't likely to kill him, though. His suit was fireproof. It had to be in order to withstand the intense heat of atmospheric drops. Of course, convection heat would still be a problem.

The worst that could happen was that his fuel tank ignited. It was meant to be flameproof as well, and most of the things that Hollywood would have people believe generally weren't true. Still, intense heat could potentially crack the thing wide open. He'd be dead for sure.

Well, either way he was screwed.

He pointed the flamethrower at the ground, to the best of his ability. He was on his knees, aiming it in front of him. He pulled the trigger for a second, and was instantly consumed by the flames. He cried out loudly as the intense flames overwhelmed him, kicking away from the point he'd ignited. A thousand screams in his ears. He wasn't sure they were even screaming anymore, or if they'd just been screaming so long that the sound was permanently implanted in his skull.

He wasn't laying directly in the fire anymore, though there were still flames. He couldn't see, could hardly breathe. He coughed violently, and batted away the burning bodies that thrashed on top of him. He suddenly realized that he heard more noises in his helmet, several people yelling out things over the radio.

There was a loud pop in his ears, and he felt his head rebound off the metal floor. The vehicle began to fishtail, and there was the screech of metal being mistreated, the smell of rubber burning.

/_**"We just lost our back tires! We're not gonna- Arrrgh!"**_/

/_**"Driver's gone, driver's gone! We're going over, brace for impact!"**_/

Rommel closed his eyes, feeling the vehicle going into a spin. He briefly considered jumping out the side. Then he recalled that he'd tethered himself to the damn vehicle. Standing up and unclipping the line would be impossible now, with the vehicle so out of control. He couldn't _cut _the line, his knife was... Well, somewhere in the padded seats, on the other side of the flames. Besides, jumping ran a whole different risk of having the vehicle clip him as he jumped out.

Plus, even if he jumped, what hope did he have? He'd be a stationary target for these... _Things._

/_**"Rommel! Almec! We're gonna try n' slow you guys down, try and jump in!"**_/

Rommel grabbed onto one of the transport's sides, attempting to pull himself to his feet. He was still burning, still being cooked by convection. His eyes were wide, the corners of his mouth pulled back, teeth locked in a grimace. He managed to get to his knees, realizing that the flames from the main fire were getting... Closer.

It took him a few moments to deduce _why,_ then he realized that the snow was spreading the flames. It was like a grease fire with water added to it. He didn't have much time to act. Thankfully yet unfortunately, he didn't have to. The other troop transport came close, and Miller reached out. **"You gotta get in! Jump for it!"**

Rommel pulled himself to his feet, and stood up as much as he could. He needed to sever the cable. He wasn't sure how the vehicle was staying even remotely stable, but he didn't want to wait to find out when that'd stop being the case.

And that was when it _did_ stop being the case.

The troop transport made a sharp swerve to the right to avoid an abandoned car, but overcompensated for it. The armored vehicle rammed right into the concrete sides, and went end-over the side. It plummeted straight for whatever lay below, taking its occupants with it. Rommel felt himself pinned to the floor by the unfortunate laws of physics, but wasn't entirely ungrateful for it: It was better than being thrown about.

The vehicle spiraled a few times in mid-air, then proceeded to hit something that Rommel hadn't entirely expected: Water.

The troop transport smashed into the wide river, bottom-down through some stroke of luck, causing water to splash up all around them. Then it began to sink, slowly but certainly, and at the same time the heavy currents- Which caused the water to not freeze- began to carry them away.

Rommel was already up to his chest.

He sealed his suit thoroughly. He had fifteen minutes' worth of air. He _had_ to get loose from this fucking vehicle. **"Dom! **_**Dom!**_**"**__he called, trying to make sure his friend was alright. **"Goddamn it, where'd you go?" **

He thrashed through the sizzling water- The flames had been extinguished well enough now- and ripped his knife from the seats. He jammed it hard into its sheath, and unclipped the cable that had tethered him to the troop transport.

He went under instantly, and was forced to fight his way to the surface.

As he broke the surface, he suddenly realized he could barely see the transport... And that was when he first caught sight of Almec, who was caught by one of the roll cage's bars and being dragged down with the vehicle. He could see the vehicle's driver, completely dead. The other guy was nowhere to be found.

Rommel tried to fight the currents to swim back toward the vehicle, but it caught him first as it went by, now almost entirely underwater. He felt his foot caught by the roll cage, and he went under again. Everything went dark, and Rommel couldn't even use his VISR to see. He clicked on his helmet lamp, which still barely illuminated anything, but allowed Rommel to see what he needed to. Almec wasn't moving, though his vitals weren't critical. He'd tethered _himself_ to the damn vehicle, too.

He must've taken a hard knock on the way down.

Rommel ripped his knife out of the sheath, and proceeded to saw through Almec's cable, not having the time to find where he'd clipped it. When he had finally sawed through, he grabbed Almec, and began to swim toward the surface. _How long did it take to saw through the damn cable?_

They were at the bottom of the river, and Rommel had to find a way to get back up and to the banks in the few minutes he had left.

And even as he began, he made a grim realization.

His suit had bubbles leaking from the points in his suit where those creatures had punctured it.

_He had even less time than he thought._


	15. Screw Health, I Got a Cigar

The only sound apart from running water now was the sound of Rommel's wet, armored boots plodding against the snow-covered concrete, and the sound of a heavy object being dragged across that same concrete. There were no more Hellish beings screaming, there was no more burning, no more laughing from the tormentors of the Underworld. There was only the sound of his feet, of Dom being dragged, and of running water.

_Squish. Squish. Squish._

Inevitably, his footsteps slowed as his energy diminished, and he was reduced to shuffling. This was drastically better than when he had first emerged from the water, where he had been crawling on his hands and knees until he could finally pull himself up. The struggle had been so immense that he was left very thoroughly exhausted.

He let go of the rescue handle on Almec's armored rucksack, and his friend slumped to the ground.

Letting out a loud, wet cough, Rommel dropped to his knees. He jammed his thumbs under the jaw of the helmet, and pulled up. The helmet slid off with relative ease, it was only him that made it difficult. The helmet hit the ground with a dull thud as it fell off his head, he himself making no attempt at catching it.

He let himself slam hard into the ground, just laying there on his stomach for a moment, listening to his rapid breathing, his heart pounding in his ears like some sort of demented cymbal-playing monkey. He didn't want to _move_, didn't want to _think_, didn't want to _feel_.

So he wouldn't for a while. He wasn't sure of just how long he sat there not caring, until he finally forced himself to flip over and lay on his back. He was battered, soaked, and exhausted, a drowned rat washed ashore after having been crushed by a whale, but none of this before having its tail chopped off and being cooked alive.

That sufficiently summarized how he felt.

He forced himself to bring his hands to his face, and slowly opened up his eyes. They were bloody, scorched, and torn up. He had several gashes along each, and about five separate, eighth-of-an-inch holes horizontally punched clean through the palm of his left hand. He didn't feel it yet, and it wasn't bloody. No, those punctures were cauterized. He tried to wiggle his fingers on that hand, and was met with substantial success. Still, it shot waves of pain through his arm to do so, and they were relatively stiff.

He would not have been surprised to discover that his fingers were broken, and at this point he would not have really cared either. He feared for having to pull off his gloves to look at just how much damage was done, and he half-expected that when he did he'd be pulling off liquified skin.

His shoulder felt like there was warm blood flowing from it, as did his underarm. These had not been cauterized. If they were still bleeding, they had to have been deep. If he wasn't dead yet, however, then they must not have struck anything vital so as to cause him to bleed out.

He'd tend to all that soon enough.

For now, he had something better to worry about.

He slowly forced himself onto his side, and dragged himself the two feet toward Almec, who was laying in the same spot Rommel had left him. He popped the seal on Almec's suit, and removed his helmet as well. Almec's vitals were appearing green-yellow on the HUD. Not ideal, but far from dead. His calm, unconscious breathing had allowed him to conserve air- His suit wasn't riddled with fucking holes.

Lucky him.

Rommel's air had run out about three minutes before escaping the currents, since his suit _was_ riddled with fucking holes. He'd held his breath the rest of the time. After he'd been able to surface with Almec, the hardest part was just finding a way to stay afloat, and get the Hell out of the river. Given that most of the walls were at perfect ninety degrees and because it was usually pretty hard to wind up in the river, they didn't bother installing many forms of protection against incidents like this.

Rommel had been forced to grab a _ladder _and _drag_ Dom up the rest of the way, using only one hand to drag his best friend and use the other to climb the ladder. If that wasn't a testament to his brute strength, he didn't know what was. But Dom certainly owed him for this, and he would _not_ let him forget that.

Once he had reached the rungs, however, he had popped the seal on his own helmet so that he could get a less-than-healthy dose of ash-filled, spore-infested, fire-scented air. Still, it was better than anything else. After that ordeal, he decided that he should seriously take into consideration the installation of a CBRN unit onto his helmet in case he ever had to go through something like that again.

For that matter, he should seriously consider retirement. He _was_ nearly sixty, after all. And he had more than enough wealth to allow him to do it.

Granted, he'd never go through with it. He'd be bored out of his mind.

Since Almec didn't seem to have any life-threatening injuries, or anything Rommel could do anything about- After all, he wasn't a fucking Medical Magician, all he had was BioFoam, MediGel, a few basic first aid supplies, and a couple rolls of duct tape- he decided that his next course of action would be to take in a sigh of relief, abruptly followed by some laughing in disbelief that they were actually alive.

And that was when he realized that he _didn't_ have his BioFoam, MediGel, any first aid supplies, or even a Goddamn roll of duct tape. He, being the genius strategist that he was, had instead traded them for a _fucking flamethrower._

He glanced about him briefly, having been hit by another realization:_ Do I even have the flamethrower anymore?_

Oddly enough, he did. The damn thing was laying next to him, attached to his pack still by the fuel hose. He chuffed at it, considering whether or not the thing would still work. Did flamethrowers still work when they were soaked? He hadn't worked enough with flamethrowers to know their exact mechanics. He was a Hell_jumper_, not a Hell_bringer_, after all.

Grumbling quietly, he kicked it with the heel of his boot. Fucking thing certainly hadn't helped him very much.

The pain in his wounds started to flare up. His hand started throbbing slowly and painfully, and his side started to feel like it was on pins and needles. He grimaced, and clutched at his injured hand while pulling his arms in. This turned out to be an even worse decision than leaving them alone, because it flared up all at once.

Maybe they were worse than he thought.

He tapped on the headset-comm, which he had somehow _not_ completely demolished. It was automatically set to the squad's channel.The thing was designed for very short-range communication. Communication with people who were still alive. Rommel didn't have high hopes for it working either way. **"Miller, you up there? You hear me?" **he said, trying to sound as calm as possible. He was disappointed to hear his voice waver, sounding... Less than convincing. **"We made it, Miller. If you ****can hear me, respond, over."**

He got no response. He expected that.

Suddenly a loud cough erupted next to him, which nearly caused him to jump out of his skin. He glanced over, and saw Almec sputtering and spewing, then letting out a loud groan. Rommel clenched both hands into fists, and sighed again as he looked up at the sky. He wiped the sweat and water off his face, then flicked his wrist to get it off his hand. He slowly reached over, picking up his helmet.

He knocked the snow that it had collected out of it by banging on the dome with the heel of his palm, then began turning it over in his hands. Those buzzards from Hell had completely thrashed the thing. Several long, thick gashes now were very clear along the outer layer of the visor- Though they weren't visible from the inside- and the helmet itself's paint had been worn away pretty heavily.

He glanced at the skull-like teeth under the helmet's visor. Undamaged. He shrugged slowly. That was the only part of his helmet he particularly cared about. As he turned the helmet the wrong way, he closed his eyes quickly, having shined the helmet lamp- Which he'd never turned off- directly into his eyes. He turned the thing away quickly, and thumbed it off. Few were the occasions he actually needed it, but much was his gratefulness for having it when he did.

Almec let out another groan, and sat up slowly, burying his face in his hands. **"God, I had the craziest dream, Ed,"** the man said, his voice groggy. **"A Super came, and we were getting chased by these... These **_**things**_**. They weren't alive, some kind of..." **The man said, then trailed off. He suddenly looked up at Rommel, who was still fumbling with his helmet. **"Oh, fuck..."**

** "Yep,"** Rommel said, knowing where this was going. **"All real. We crashed into a river, you hit your head. Be glad I can drag your ass as far as I did and hold my fucking breath." **He pulled a broken talon tip from the front of his helmet, tossing it aside casually. **"But we've been separated from everyone else-"**

Almec went wide-eyed. **"But... We were being chased by those flying things... There's no way-"**

** "- Possibly separated from everyone else by the thick barrier between life and death," **Rommel acknowledged, nodding.** "I know. I know. I **_**fucking know.**_** Alone up there against all that. It's been about twenty minutes, and we've been moving in the opposite direction of them. They're either long dead or long gone anyway."**

Dom groaned again and slump back over. **"You never have anything positive to say, do you?"**

** "I **_**hope**_** they made it," **Rommel said defensively. **"But you know-"**

** "No, Rommel, I **_**don't**_** know. I **_**don't know**_** anything about what's happening, or what to do, or how they work, or anything like that," **Almec said. His voice was surprisingly quiet, not accusing. **"And now we don't even have a ride to our way out of here..."**

Rommel opened up one of his carrying pouches, and pulled out the small tin box. He opened it up and retrieved one of his cigars from it, as well as his zippo. He popped the Sweet Williams into his mouth, and flipped open the zippo. He held the lighter to the tip of the cigar until it caught, then flipped the lighter shut and jammed it back into the tin, which he also shut, and shoved it all back into the carrying pouch.

Almec coughed next to him. **"Even in the face of Death, the Great Fullmetal blows smoke,"** the man said quietly, glancing over himself visibly. He seemed to be checking the various components of his armor, looking for some form of injuries. Perhaps making sure he had all his parts, both armored and body. **"Jesus..."**

**"You ain't got any bites from the things that go bump in the night, or cuts, or scrapes, but maybe a few bruises," **Rommel said, blowing the thick smoke into the air. He watched as it mingled with the snow and was swept away by the cold winds. **"Just hit yer fuckin' head."**

Almec took in a deep breath of relief, then let out another cough and waved his hand about in the air as the smoke from Rommel's cigar met his face. **"Goddamn it, do you have to do that where it always blows in my face?" **he protested, moving so that he would be upwind of Rommel's smoke, sitting in front of him. He stood over Rommel, pausing as he saw his battered helmet. His mouth opened a little in what might have been surprise, but it was hard to gauge.

Rommel felt his eyes on him, though he didn't meet Almec's gaze. He could feel those eyes scanning over his arm, his side, his hand. **"What about you, huh? You got any "bites from things that go bump in the night?" Or are those just some spawn of a new piercing fad that you're trying to keep up with so as to keep up with the hip young kids?"**

Rommel chuffed at that, gesturing at his hand. **"Oh, yes. Latest thing. Holes in your hand, bloody fucking brilliant, no puns intended. Makes you look like a complete badass, didn't you know?" **he said, his voice condescending. He rolled his eyes, glancing up at the man. It seemed hard to think that he could manage to look down on someone who was standing above him. **"No, Dom, they fucking tore me up. I left everything back in the Goddamn armory, I got nothing."**

** "Shit," **Almec mumbled, moving off out of sight from where Rommel was sitting. The Senior took another drag from the cigar, letting the charmingly toxic air fill his lungs before he exhaled it again. Health be damned. As if he already didn't have enough to worry about with genocidal aliens and rebel scum, now he had to worry about _zombies_. Hell, he had to worry about zombie _bats._

Given that he'd held his breath as long as he had earlier, he was fairly confident he didn't need to worry about his lungs giving up on him due to something as silly as a nicotine addiction.

Almec took him by the arm, trying to bring him to his feet. **"C'mon, we need to get out of the open. We'll use one of these buildings, try n' patch you up. We'll figure something out from there, figure out how to get to-"**

** "Don't," **Rommel said, shaking off Almec's grip. He took another drag from the cigar, letting a long silence pass before he spoke again. **"Kovcheg's gone. You know it as much as I do. It's probably a big, festering shithole at this point."**

** "Then fuck Kovcheg, but we gotta find Miller, find the others who were **_**with him.**_** And if there's anyone else, then we can try to save them too, somehow," **Almec insisted. He took a more firm hold on Rommel's arm, trying to get him up again. **"C'mon."**

** "Fine, fine, **_**fine!**_**" **Rommel hissed. **"Just ease up, you're grabbing me right where I got bit, jackass."** As Almec's grip switched to his other arm, he held up a finger. **"N' let me finish my fuckin' cigar first, it'll help. 'Sides, I gotta put on my helmet, n' I ain't wastin' a perfectly good cigar."**

Almec rolled his eyes, but chuckled. **"Okay, Sarge,"** he said. **"You do that."**

Not questioning why Almec had called him Sarge, Rommel did.

And then they were off.


	16. Free Parking

**/PFC TRAVIS MILLER/**

**/March 3, 2549 (MILITARY CALENDAR)/**

**/2100 Hours/**

**/OUTER_COLONY: NASIP,/**

**/I-1 FREEWAY, NEW POPLAVA CITY/**

**/STATUS: RED/**

** "Rommel! Almec! Can either of you guys hear me?"** Miller called into his radio, firing several shots from his XM510. He pulled the trigger again, but the grenade launcher instead responded with the loudest noise one could ever hear on the battlefield: A click. He'd spent up all the shots in the cylinder already.

He glanced over at his shoulder toward an Army trooper. **"Cover me, I gotta reload this thing!"** he shouted, annoyed with the fact that his voice cracked as he did so. He opened up the cylinder, and began to insert new grenades from the bandolier he'd wrapped around him. There wasn't really an effective way to reload the weapon quickly, something that was an unfortunate fact with _any_ weapon that used explosives.

Power and time were two tough trades to make.

**"Just a bit longer!"** yelled Lager from somewhere in the vehicle. The Captain fired a few rounds from his M7, which he'd acquired in the armory apparently. The weapon could be fired with one hand, even by someone who _wasn't_ a SPARTAN-II Supersoldier. Whether or not they hit anything, however, was an entirely different story- Recoil was still a problem. **"Exit's not too far now! Step on it!"**

** "Oorah!"** someone called back, punctuating it with the bark of an assault rifle.

The Warthog began to accelerate a little more, though at the same time hardly noticeably. However, every time they had to swerve around a hole in the road or a parked car, it became _much_ more noticeable, and everyone was nearly thrown from the vehicle multiple times.

Two minutes or so passed, filled with plenty of explosions and gunfire.

**"Running low on ammunition, how much longer we got?"** called out whoever had spoken before. **"Only got two mags left, Captain!"**

** "Just a little bit further!"** Lager yelled, firing his submachine gun with little effect. **"Just stay alive if ya can't shoot!"**

This brought a somewhat harsh reality down on top of Miller's head as well. He only had enough for about one more reload with the grenade launcher. If he used it all up now, he wouldn't have it if he needed it later. He could only hope he wouldn't need it later. Something big enough to need a grenade launcher just sounded unpleasant to have to combat.

He swapped out his XM510 for the MA5B. Firing 7.62 full metal jacket rounds from a sixty-round magazine at a rate of six hundred rounds per minute, the UNSC's trademark workhorse of a weapon demanded respect... And a sturdy shoulder. On fully automatic, the thing kicked like a mule, but it was better to be on the end getting kicked than the end getting shot.

He flicked off the safety, and the electronic ammo-counter lit up bright: "60" it informed.

Miller stood up and began to fire wildly into the swarm. He didn't even bother holding the thing to his shoulder, aiming was pointless. He could fire in a straight line and achieve the same results, he was sure. He wasn't sure of what exactly these things _were_, but they took a lot of punishment, and didn't show a lot of ability to understand anything past "Eat the people."

God willing, they wouldn't have their craving satisfied.

**"Sharp right!" **the driver exclaimed.

Miller swore under his breath, and rammed his feet into the side of the vehicle. He stretched out his arms quickly, wrapping both hands around the roll cage's metallic bars. He strained himself to push backward toward the vehicle, even as it made its fiendishly impossible turn. He felt momentum try to pull him away from it, but became vaguely aware that somebody was pulling him back even though he was forcing himself in place.

He welcomed the assistance regardless.

The vehicle rocked on its wheels as it completed the turn, and Miller felt himself slam hard into the seat, bouncing as he did so. **"Damn!"** he exclaimed. But the wild ride wasn't done yet, they were on the off-ramp, on a downhill slope that simply led into what was an even bigger disaster waiting to happen:

The streets of New Poplava.

As the troop transport veered into the traffic lanes of the city, Miller became vaguely aware of shapes moving in the shadows- In the alleyways, behind windows. Slower than the swarm, but faster than an average being. There were things he couldn't _see,_ but could see. And they were watching them with anticipation, waiting for the scene to unfold.

That was _before_ he directed his attention to the street itself.

Bodies.

Bodies of men. Bodies of women. Bodies of children. They were ripped to shreds, limbs strewn about like discarded toys. Organs scattered about like confetti on New Years' Eve. Blood smeared across every visible object, the effect of some madman having taken the meaning of "paint the town red" too literally.

And there, standing about like golems or demons, were their slaughterers. Humanoid shapes, some barely visible through the smoke, about-faced to get a better look at the newcomers. He could hardly tell more than their species, which might have been for the better. Getting to know their real features might be a little too memorable.

**"Twelve o' clock, in the road!"** the driver shouted.

The monsters began to take shape. Fourteen or fifteen of them, he guessed. Most of them were people, but some were Elites. But these ones weren't like the others.

He felt his jaw drop.

Their flesh had taken on the texture of that strange mush, that "biomass" that had grown on the walls of the underground areas they had visited. Their forms seemed more mutated, but in some way _refined_. They didn't have the appearance of rotted bodies anymore, but rather those of an entirely new entity.

Their heads didn't lull about anymore, they had been pushed back completely, out of the way. The massive cavities in their chest revealed much more of the parasites, their sensory stalks unhampered by any remaining flesh. Their armor and clothing had been mostly stripped away in areas it was unnecessary, and what was left had mostly been _overgrown._

The tentacles that grew all out from their arms were still readily apparent, but seemed _much_ more weaponized. Some had started to sprout them from their backs, too.

**"Looks like they upgraded," **Lager said quietly. He looked over his shoulder, at Miller and the unnamed troopers. **"What're you waitin' for? Gun their asses down!"**

** "Aye, sir!" **Miller said, standing fully. The swarm at their backs would have to wait, despite the fact that it was following them. Either way they had to at least _attempt_ to break up the group for safer passage. He and the others who had weapons began to open up on the group, raining lead on their targets for all they were worth.

Some fell. Others got in the way.

Those who got in the way were rammed by the troop 'Hog, exploding in a mess of green and brown slop across the windshield- And anything that spilled over hit Miller and the other poor SOB right in the face, coating them both in a messy sludge. **"Oh. _God..._"** Miller muttered, looking down at his armor.

He pulled a piece of tentacle from his armor, throwing it behind him.

Then he remembered. The swarm was still behind them.

**"How are we gonna ditch these damn things?" **Miller called out, looking up at the swarm. They'd managed to get some distance from it, but something told him there was a reason for that. They would be right on top of them if they wanted to. Something was wrong.

**"Uh... There's a parking garage down the next street! We can get in there, collapse the entrance!" **Lager shouted back. The man nodded toward the driver. **"Get us there in one piece, will ya?"**

Then the unexpected happened: The swarm began to fall away, dispersing through several different buildings.

**"They're gone! They gave up, they left!"** Miller shouted happily. **"They aren't chasing us anymore! We're gonna make it!"** He threw his hands into the air joyfully, and looked toward the other passenger. He almost hugged the man, but caught himself in time. He just couldn't _believe_ they had made it.

**"Don't jinx it, kid,"** Lager scorned.

But at what cost? Rommel and Almec were gone, possibly dead. Last thing he had seen was their vehicle engulfed with the things, and _on fire. _He'd heard screaming, but couldn't see what was happening. Then somebody had announced the driver was dead, and the thing went over the side. It seemed unlikely they could have survived all that.

They hadn't responded to his calls on the comms, either. Maybe the comms were being jammed again. Maybe they didn't have powerful enough broadcasting systems to work outside close range. Maybe their communications systems had been broken during their foray. Or maybe they were just dead.

They were too far out of range for him to track their vitals now.

The Warthog turned, and their destination was in sight. A multiple story parking garage. The entrance wasn't blocked, either. **"Get us in there quick,"** Lager ordered.

They were about two blocks from it yet, close but not yet safe. Which was unfortunate, given that the inhuman wails started up again... From all around them. And then the shrieks from the swarm joined in on them, creating a symphony of ear-splitting noise.

The windows of the buildings around them erupted outward, raining glass across the streets. The Hellish bat-like creatures screamed forth from them, filling the air above them. Dark figures leaped from them and into the street, roaring their battle-cries even as they did so. Miller half-expected them to splatter across the ground on impact, but to his surprise, they landed without any visible damage... And came running after them.

**"Holy shit!"** Miller exclaimed. **"They're... They're everywhere!"**

** "Keep 'em off us for another minute! Can't this fucking thing go any faster?"** Lager called, slamming his gun into the dashboard for emphasis.

Their path was filled with monsters. Boogeymen, zombies, harpies, and demons. Could they possibly hope to combat all these things at the same time? No, they couldn't, could they?

_Only one way to find out._

Miller stood up, and took aim on whatever came near them. As individuals began to swoop down from the swarm, he opened up on them. If one of the mutant undead came at them, he opened up on them. It was a game of priorities at this rate; Taking down the enemy as a whole was impossible. There were _hundreds_ of footmobiles, possibly _thousands_ of those airborne hostiles.

All of them were focusing entirely on the troop transport.

**"Up high, heads down!" **called Lager.

There was a high-pitched sound that was _very _characteristic of energy weapons. In particular, the Covenant Particle Beam Rifle. Miller caught a glimpse of a purple flash... And there was a loud pop. **"Fuck! We lost one of the tires!"**

** "Keep it under control! Keep it steady!"**

The troop 'Hog veered hard right, which was thankfully into the entrance of the garage. It slammed hard into the toll booth, blowing right through the whole structure. It began to tumble over, throwing everybody out of it. Miller hit the ground hard, his rifle skittering off across the pavement. He could see Lager on his knees to his left, looking toward the door.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

Lager was screaming something, given the look on his face. The man whose name he never learned was on his stomach, starting to get to his feet- With a shocked look on his bloody face, which he'd pretty much skinned when he was thrown from the transport. The driver was pinned under the transport, mostly obscured from view. But _his_ face suggested not just pain, but anticipation.

Miller found a common theme in all of them. They were looking toward the entrance they'd just passed through, with the appearance of someone who had glimpsed their demise.

Miller's head turned.

Through the doorway, he couldn't see the sky. It was blacked out by the creatures from the darkest void. An army of the undead was poised and ready to sprint in and shoot, mangle, and tear them apart.

In front of all of them was one of the hulking forms they had encountered on the Ember Tower, surrounded by _hundreds_ of infection parasites. They blanketed the floor. They coated the walls. They covered the ceiling. They were a tide of organic beings. The tank of a mutant didn't seem to care about their presence, and was in the process of barreling into the garage like a demented gorilla.

Everything began to speed up again, and Lager's shouting finally had meaning:

_Seal the entrance! Drop the ceiling!_

But how?

Miller's hand moved without his conscious consent, and before he knew it he had the XM510 in his hands. He didn't know why at first, until he realized he was aiming it at the ceiling of the entrance. _Then_ he understood what he was about to do, and let himself do it.

He pulled the trigger. High-pitched squeals, followed by pops. A huge slab of concrete fell, crushing part of the infection army. He pulled it again. More concrete, more deaths. He pulled it again, and the hulk was vanquished. He kept pulling until he heard a click- And the entrance was filled with rubble.

There were a few brief gunshots, finishing off a few of the Infection Forms who had managed to pass through.

**"Thank _God_," **somebody said. **"We made it."**

** "A little help...?" **the man pinned under the 'Hog said.

**"Shit. Miller, get up, we're gonna need all the power we can get to get this damn thing offa 'im."**

Miller sighed, standing up slowly. **"Yes, sir."**


	17. On the Rocks

**/CPL DOMINIC ALMEC/**

**/March 3, 2549 (MILITARY CALENDAR)/**

**/2200 Hours/**

**/OUTER_COLONY: NASIP,/**

**/17TH STREET BAR & DINER, NEW POPLAVA CITY/**

**/STATUS: RED/**

Rommel spat the cork out of his mouth with an exaggerated enthusiasm, letting his eyes trail it for a moment as it hit the ground, bounced, and rolled somewhere out of sight behind some tables. He shrugged, grinning at Almec for a moment. He slammed one hand down on his helmet, which he'd set atop the counter, before he raised his arm up to proudly display the bottle he had liberated from the liquor cabinet.

Almec raised a brow, eying the clear alcohol carefully. Rommel had turned the label away from him, so he couldn't see the exact label of what he had in his hand. Despite that, it wasn't hard to come to a decision. Rommel could be a heavy drinker off-duty. He'd only ever seen the man drunk maybe twice, and it took _hours_ of hard liquor to establish that. He could drink any man under the table, and he could set any bar out of business within a night.

And Rommel _only_ drank heavy stuff. He claimed that drinking anything less was like drinking fruit juice or some kind of powdered drink, amounting to nothing more than Kool-Aid.

Given the clear bottle and Rommel's _usual_ drink of choice, he was willing to wager a guess.

**"Vodka," **Almec said, more a statement of finality than a question of confirmation.

Rommel's grin did not fade, and instead he gave a hard nod. This type of grin wasn't characteristic of Rommel. He would often give off one with a certain boyish charm, a lopsided grin that showed plenty of his pearly whites. He always claimed that women melted at the sight of it, with all of his experiences with Rommel, Almec had never been given reason to disagree.

The older-than-appearances Spook brought the bottle under his nose, and took in a deep breath, wafting the fumes to his nose. He let out an exaggerated sigh of relaxation. **"Strong stuff, at that," **the man said. He held the bottle of poison in disguise to his lips, and tilted it back. He chugged a good quarter of the bottle in loud gulps, then finally slammed the bottle against the counter hard enough that Almec was sure he had cracked the thing.

He glanced around, and started milling about behind the counter, fiddling with various components that Almec could only guess. The Spook's voice trailed back to him from behind the counter, even as he moved out of sight to inspect the contents of various storage cabinets. **"If things're as bad as they are, we're not Ion Team anymore," **the man said, his voice surprisingly cheery. **"We're **_**Fucked.**_** Team Fucked."**

Almec was taken aback by this statement, and with the ease and good-naturedness that Rommel had delivered such an announcement. Almec half-suspected he was delirious. Maybe those creatures had some sort of disease. Or maybe it was just general blood loss, or inflammation of the injuries causing some sort of fever that was screwing with his head, or infection of them.

_Infection._

Almec had seen old zombie movies. A bite, a scratch, or getting bodily fluids into a person resulted in _them_ being transformed into a member of the shambling hordes. Did it work the same way? Or were they limited to the infecting parasites?

** " What little a team there is anyway. Campbell's off gallivanting about eating brains or ****whatever it is they do, maybe beating an old lady to death with her own arm. Findish is a pile of ****ashes, pick a God and let him rest his soul. About this point in time, Miller's bat-zombie shit, I'm sure. Which leaves just you and me, just like b'fore the wars, eh?"** There was some glass clinking, or at least what sounded like glass. Almec wasn't sure what Rommel was doing, but he wasn't entirely inclined to object just yet either.

**"I guess it does," **Almec replied quietly. He'd known Rommel since they were in elementary school. And one of the many things he had learned was that with Edward Wolffe Rommel, if he was in what appeared to be a good mood and he was talking _this_ much in a way that suggested he was getting into deeper matters, it was best to just give short answers that confirmed you were listening, and let the man continue rambling.

_Afterward,_ trying to talk him out of whatever conclusion he'd already come to was an available option, though it would never work. The look on Rommel's face always stated very plainly "I've-already-rejected-everything-you're-about-to-say," even if his lips said "Let's hear it." He was a very stubborn man.

**"Well," **Rommel's voice replied, shortly followed by his body coming into view. **"The way I see it, everyone on this planet is part of Team Fucked, whether they like it or not. Let's face it. We are fucked. Kovcheg won't have anything. It'll be overrun, and everyone will be dead. No, not dead. Undead. Any space-worthy vessels that aren't wrecked will be impossible to get to. And if they aren't impossible to get to, there'll be some minor flaw that'll render them useless just when we're about to get away."**

The man's smile had somewhat faltered, but it was still present. Oddly enough, its presence didn't appear to be _forced,_ either. He was talking as though he was discussing how his favorite team had won the big game.

** "If I'm going to be a part of Team Fucked, I'm not going to be fucked without enjoying myself first. If I can pump enough of this shit into my veins, I'll be totally numb to everything. I won't feel my shredded hands and side, so I won't be slowed down by pain. I'm already a pessimist, so I expect the worst. Of course we'll go to Kovcheg regardless of what I think, because there's always that slim chance. But hey, if I've got enough shit in my head to stop me from feeling things, I won't be disappointed when I don't find any space-faring ships in the hangars.**

** "And hey, when the bad guys show up to tear us limb from limb, I won't shit myself in fear, 'cause my head'll be too clouded with alcohol to think rational thoughts like "Gee, am I gonna be able to take on an entire undead army when I'm outnumbered this bad?" or "Boy, I should probably run away from these sunsabitches before they tear my arms off and beat me with them." No, Dominic, no, I won't be courageous either, I just won't feel fear. So I won't give a second thought about being able to beat them as I click off the last rounds of the last mag I have on my soon-to-be-mangled body. And hey, when they finally bear down on me and kill my ass, turn me into one of the living dead, I'll be too fuckin' hammered to feel myself mutating and dying."**

The Spook produced two glasses, which were filled with not clear, but a thick white liquid that appeared to be cream. **"Two White Russians. One fer me, one fer you." **He slid one glass to Almec, who had since taken a seat in front of the counter. He caught it, glancing at it briefly. He continued to stare at Rommel for a moment, who was guzzling the drink he'd just prepared as though there was no tomorrow.

Oh, that was right. His speech revealed that he was sure there _wasn't_ a tomorrow.

As the man slammed the mug against the counter, his grin was renewed. He glanced over at Almec, and finally let his smile fade. He looked away and sighed. **"What?"**

** "That was one of the most fucking pathetic and depressing things I've ever heard you say, Ed. Even for a Spook."**

** "Ed this, Spook that. Conflicting sides to the same story that meshed together to form the man who's just decided that on this day in particular, where his squad is quickly diminishing and has discovered that, indeed, there is such a thing as Space Barnacles that latch onto you and produce Space Zombies, he's just decided that he's seen everything, and just doesn't feel like dragging on with a life that's so full of shit it's unbelie-"**

** "Fuck that, Ed."**

** "'Scuse me?"**

Almec leaned inward, glaring at his friend. He could see that Rommel was genuinely confused about what it was he'd done to earn such a response. The truth was, Almec was getting tired of the sentiment they were without any hope at all. **"You think you've done it all, you've seen it all, you're bored with life, you've got no reason to try to continue on. You think Kovcheg's gone, you think that we're the last two survivors on the whole damn planet, and there's no way for us to escape. Am I in the ballpark?"**

The Senior shifted himself so as to sit down on the counter, taking another swig from the glass. **"Aye, you most certainly are. You think yourself a mind-reader?"**

Almec ignored the sarcasm, but continued on. **"Maybe Kovcheg _is_ gone, maybe it isn't. I don't hold high hopes for it either. But maybe there's _somewhere else_ that _does_ have something worth the effort. Maybe in another city they've got successful evacuations underway, or maybe somebody's got a _personal_ ship that can get us out of here and we've just overlooked the possibility. You ever consider that?"**

** "'Course I have! But locating a personal ship that can go into space for long periods of time is difficult, even on a planet small as this. Getting to some other city somewhere? How do you expect us to do _that?_ We just lost our wheels, and even if we had 'em, it's obvious we're not safe no matter where we go! Hell, I'm half-afraid there's a swarm of zombuzzards waitin' in the broom closet!" **he shouted, gesturing behind him.

**"Maybe we can find an APC, or a Goddamn _tank_," **Almec suggested. **"We saw them rolling toward the crash site earlier, there's bound to be some around here somewhere that haven't been demolished. Hell, we saw them rolling _away_ under enemy control. Maybe we can go find them, set a trap, steal one back."**

Rommel's eyes went out of focus for a moment, visibly. He was staring into some other world, contemplating some other thing. Something Almec had said had affected him strongly, got him thinking. He was almost afraid to discover what it was he was thinking about.

**"The crash site," **Rommel said after a long silence.

**"What about it?" **Almec said, finally taking a sip of the stuff in the mug. He immediately felt as though somebody has punched him in the mouth. That stuff _was_ strong. How Ed could tolerate it in such huge quantities without destroying his mind and body, he would never know.

Ed seemed to finally come back to reality, and slipped himself off the counter on the patron side. He walked toward Almec, and sat down on a bar stool next to him. He took him by both shoulders, and looked directly into his eyes, as if expecting to find all the answers there by having found one idea. Rommel's eyes were wide, full of urgency.

A smile cracked across his face.

**"The Supercarrier. Supercarriers are prepped for full-scale invasion. They carry... They carry uh... Phantoms, Spirits, Banshees! _Space_ Banshees! Hell, sometimes they lug around Corvettes! If we got lucky, maybe... Maybe if _Kovcheg_ doesn't have anything, then we can go in there and-"**

** "And what, Ed?"** Almec interrupted, standing up, shaking the man's grip off him. **"Go in there and just _steal_ one? That's even less likely than finding something at Kovcheg! If there's this many _out here_, and they came from _there, _how many are _still in there?_"** He watched as Rommel's grin dissipated again, and let out an exasperated sigh, turning away from him.

He heard a long slurp, indicating that Rommel had turned back to his vodka.

**"But you know it's not that far-fetched. Most of them are probably out here, killing us. They don't have any reason to stay aboard that ship if they're here to kill us. All we'd need is to have enough ammunition to burn through to get into something, and from there, getting out would be easy. We haven't seen them using any Banshees, or Phantoms, or anything like that. Maybe they don't know _how_. But if they're fueled up just enough to _get out_, then we could make it,"** Rommel said calmly.

There was the loud clink of the heavy mug hitting the counter, and then the sound of metal hitting metal. There was a brief clack, and then the sound of metal clattering to the floor. Almec sighed again, turning around. **"What are you doing?"** he asked quietly.

Rommel's chestplate and shoulder guards were laying on the floor, and he was in the process of removing the gauntlet-like forearm guards. **"Taking off my Goddamn armor," **he replied simply, letting the parts fall wherever they did. The top half of his body was now unarmored, exposing what should have been a jet-black jumpsuit. _His_ had red coatings in several areas.

**"Whoa, that don't look good," **Almec said, taking a step toward him.

**"You're fuckin' tellin' me! It don't feel any better'n't looks!" **Rommel shouted. He began to remove the top half of the jumpsuit, unzipping it down the middle so that he could just pull his arms out of it and let it hang around his waist. Almec was always astonished whenever Rommel did this, because the very _appearance_ of the man was enough to inspire fear- With, or without armor.

Rommel had the kind of build that any bodybuilder would've killed for. He was taller than most men, taller than just about any Almec had seen in the military, sans SPARTAN units- But he had the build _of_ one of those SPARTAN units, if not more so. The man didn't appear to have an ounce of fat on him, instead making up his weight with sheer muscle mass.

And, unlike _most _of those bodybuilders, his weren't full of water, making him incredibly powerful. He claimed that he could crush a Twenty-First-Century dime, though he had never proven it- Credits had long since replaced hard currency, making it hard for him to come across one of the pieces in order to prove it.

But it wasn't just the mass of the man that made him intimidating.

The entirety of his body was covered in scars.

His left arm was a single horrendous burn scar, as was most of his back and the left side of his stomach, extending even as far as his neck. These were the work of the day Rommel had been chased down and cornered by a pair of Hunters. He had just barely survived _that_ day by getting the Hunters to fire on each other by accident- Though he hadn't managed to be out of the way of their fire fully.

Thick, pale lines indicated the work of claws trailing from the bottom left of his stomach to his right shoulder. Unsurprisingly, Brutes had a tendency to get angry when their allies were killed. When the one they were angry at had an unfortunate lack of intact armor, their attacks were even more devastating.

Entry and exit wound scars were visible all about his body, most of them faded. Most of these were ancient, from his Marine days. The days when all he had to fear were other _people_ shooting at him, instead of aliens... Or mutant zombies.

On his right shoulder was a faded black Japanese kanji for "Complete Badass," a popular tattoo among ODSTs. Rommel had bandwagoned that. On his left breast, faded but visible, was an angular heart, with the words "Liebe Ist Für Alle Da" written and underlined within it, translating to "Love is there for everyone." He generally kept that one under wraps, thought it was embarrassing- He'd gotten it on one of the nights he was drunk, after all.

He never had explained why he'd kept it.

The Spook, more a warrior than a soldier, looked up at Almec, and indicated his left side, in particular holding up his left hand. Holes had been punched clean through the palm of his hand, and his hand was blackened a little where it had been burned by the napalm-induced flames. He was bleeding significantly from his left side, as well from under his left arm.

Rommel leaned back in his spot, letting his back rest against the counter. **"Dragged your ass as far as I did **_**with**_** all this, by the way," **he said, a little smirk crossing his face. **"You're welcome. Now, as repayment... What've you got in your ruck?"**

Almec detached his armored rucksack, setting it down on the stool next to Rommel. He withdrew a canister of biofoam, several gauze strips, and- Much to Rommel's surprise- duct tape. The man beamed at him at the sight of the duct tape. **"When did **_**you**_** start packing tape?"**

** "After I saw you use it to seal up a couple holes in your suit and then walk out into space. Figured it was as useful as any patch, and more practical than another jumpsuit." **He spun the roll of duct tape around his finger, then set it down on the counter. **"But, first things first. The biofoam."**

** "Mother of God. You don't have anything like maybe just painkillers, or morphine?"**

** "Hold out your hand."**

Rommel slowly extended his hand, splaying out his fingers. This obviously greatly pained him to do so. Dom held the nozzle of the biofoam canister against the first puncture wound. **"One... Two..." **Rommel visibly tensed, and he pulled the injector trigger. There was a brief hiss, and the space was filled with the white goo.

**"Agh! Motherfucker!"**

** "One down... About nine more to go."**

** "Shit."**


	18. No Such Thing as Innocent

**/PFC TRAVIS MILLER/**

**/March 3, 2549 (MILITARY CALENDAR)/**

**/2230 Hours/**

**/OUTER_COLONY: NASIP/**

**/NEW POPLAVA SUBWAY STATION, NEW POPLAVA CITY/**

**/STATUS: RED/**

Private First Class Travis Miller stood in front of a pair of ticket booths, holding his rifle firmly in his hands. However, he had no desire to buy a ticket, no. He had no interest in any trains, either. No, his focus was shifted entirely to the large metal security gates that sealed off the main entrances to the station. In particular, he was more interested in what lay just beyond them.

Relatively large groups of those things stood just on the other side. They clawed, grabbed, groped at the links in the gate, which reminded Miller of an oversized air duct grate. He was maybe five feet away from the creatures, who seemed _frenzied_ over the fact that he was so close but so far away. A couple had managed to snake their tentacled appendages through, but none could reach far enough.

They _screamed_ in frustration, in desire, perhaps trying to communicate some plan with one another. Given that they were not moving _away_ from the gate, or attempting to find some other way around, the idea about them formulating some kind of plan seemed unlikely. They were not coordinated like some of the others were.

Lager leaned against a ticket booth, looking at the group. **"Think they want in?" **he asked, drumming his fingers on the plexiglass. Then he looked at the very glass he was drumming on. **"Boy, they still use **_**people**_** to hand out tickets? Christ, most o' these places use terminals. Automated stuff. If this ain't a treat."**

Miller looked back at him, cocking a brow. **"Well. We aren't going back up to the surface any time soon,"** he reported. **"I don't know what's worse. Being up there, or being underground. Seems we're just walking one big fucking circle." **

The process of getting to where they were now had been painfully slow. Once they'd sealed off the entrance to the parking garage, they had decided that maybe it was better to travel through buildings, or subterranean areas. Underground they had to worry about hordes of the undead, as well as what appeared to be nest-like areas. But above ground? They had to worry about even more of them, _plus_ crazed flying things.

So they'd broken into a service tunnel, and decided that their best course of action would be to find the subway system. They could just walk the tunnels, try to get to the base that way. Then they could do whatever they could manage to do there.

The Marine who he'd been earlier riding in the back of the troop transport with him, Sergeant Votlin, gave a quiet grunt. **"Well. I've seen them break down military-grade steel security doors, and I've seen them pound a MBT into submission with their bare hands. I say we don't stick around to find out how long it'll take them to get through this." **The man turned, walking off in some other direction.

**"Sarge's right," **Lager said, nodding. **"Let's go."**

** "Oh, fuck...!"** somebody shouted. **"You guys might wanna see this!"**

Miller spun around on his heel, and saw one of the Army troopers gawking at something near the tracks. He couldn't see what, there were too many benches in the way. But the expression on the man's face didn't promise very much. He started to make his way toward him at a slow jog. He hoped to God it was something good, rather than bad.

No luck.

As he came up next to the soldier, he stopped in his tracks.

Bodies. _Lots_ of bodies.

Miller stepped over a bisected man whose intestines were spilled all across the floor, bringing his assault rifle to bear again. He almost jumped out of his skin when his foot caught on a severed arm, thinking that something had grabbed his foot. A woman's disemboweled, decapitated body lay on a bench, hollowed out on the inside. It looked like something had been _inside_ her until recently.

He looked up. There had to be at least twenty bodies here, all of them torn to pieces. Their blood coated everything, a red sea across the checkered tiles. Then his foot caught something else- Something heavy, metallic. Miller paused, looking down.

There, laying abandoned on the floor, was a MA37 rifle, coated in slime- And with a hand still gripping it, pulling the trigger through rigor mortis, but no longer firing. The ammunition had long since been expended. He realized there were _many_ military-grade weapons scattered across the ground- With the bodies of

**"Oh my God," **he said, not finding the words.

**"Looks like somebody had a fuckin' hay-day in here," **Lager said, his gaze observing the body of a child. Almost a newborn, Miller would've guessed. He didn't look closer to check. **"I'm gonna guess these civvies were waitin 'for a MagLev. Soldiers here were prob'ly escourtin' 'em to safety, maybe to Kovcheg. System runs real close to the base."**

Miller felt his heart leaping into his throat. He was literally shaking in his boots. He'd seen some terrible things, but this was just... _Horrific. _He was glad he had a helmet on, otherwise they may have heard his teeth chattering. And it _wasn't_ because of the cold, either.

He gulped down his fears enough to find his voice. **"Those gates are closed... And this doesn't look like it happened that long ago..." **he said quietly. **"So the question is... Where's the killers?"**

Votlin grunted. **"Can't be far from here... They'd have to be right on top of us..."** he said, raising his MA5B. He began to sweep the room, looking for a hidden foe. But it was a hard process. The entire room was dark, and the Marines had to operate by flashlight.

Miller had the luxury of the VISR and night vision systems. Nonetheless, every dark corner seemed to harbor an unseen hostile, every object a potential hiding place. He was almost tempted to open up the nearby trash cans to check inside _them._

Nothing was too far-fetched for him right now.

The driver of their earlier transport, Private Eyden, was busy sweeping the floor for hostiles. **"Not seeing anything I can confirm as a hostile body,"** he announced. **"If they were attacked by a group, they only killed a couple maybe. Not even seeing any of that yellow-green shit that they got for blood..."**

** "No,"** Lager agreed. **"I'm not even seeing a lot of shells on the ground. These guys were dead before they even knew what was happening."**

A dark thought crept into Miller's mind, laying its poisonous seeds to grow of their own accord. His eyes went wide, and he turned towards the Captain. **"So... These guys basically got ambushed? ****Didn't know where the enemy was?"**

The Captain simply nodded, facing Miller's general direction without being able to fully see him. **"Prob'ly. I don't see any other way we'd be seein' this."**

Private Travis Miller felt a shiver go up his spine, and his heart leaped into his throat again. **"And... We're standing in the **_**same**_** spot as they were? Without knowing where the enemy is?"**

The Captain's eyes widened, and he swung his flashlight around. **"Fuck. We need to get out of here, we're sitting-"**

There was a loud clanging, crashing sound, as though somebody had dropped many heavy metal objects. Everybody spun around to face the direction it came from, aiming guns and flashlights at the source: A simple supply closet. The door was motorized, slid into the ceiling from the ground. It wouldn't work without power, but that wasn't entirely an issue.

There was a body that jammed the door from being all the way shut.

The legs and lower torso of the body were all that was visible, contorted in a way that suggested the owner of them was trying to escape. They were mutilated in a way that suggested they had been stomped or grabbed by something very large. The door itself had come down with so much force, it appeared, that it had nearly cut the person under it in half, evidenced by that it was lodged so far that it must have made contact with the person's spine.

Everyone moved slowly toward the door, quietly. Votlin pressed his assault rifle into the guts of the dead person, preparing to fire. The legs did not move, and the body did not quiver with surprise. This was no trapped zombie, this was just some poor bastard who hadn't made it to safety.

Something else made a noise from behind the door. There was a light pitter-patter of footsteps. Very light. Miller approached the door slowly, and listened intently for the noises. He suddenly became aware of an equally light sobbing... Somebody was behind the door.

He rapped on the door with his knuckles. **"Hey, somebody in there?" **He waited a moment. All the sound had stopped. **"Can you hear me? We're UNSC, military. Do you need help getting out?"**

No response for a while... And then there was a soft cry. Neither words nor a conveyed idea, but just a soft cry. Miller was trying to remember whether or not he'd heard any of those monsters make such a noise. He supposed it was possible they could, but he wasn't sure. Still, he wasn't a hundred percent.

**"We're here to help you," **Votlin said quickly, nodding toward Eyden. The man put his flashlight between his teeth, and removed his survival pack. He began rummaging through it. **"We're here to take you to some place safer."**

There was another outburst. It was followed quickly by a brief whimper. Then another. And another, until it was no longer whimpering, but uncontrollable sobbing... Which erupted into what sounded like tears of anguish.

Miller was certain that it was a child.

**"Stand back away from the door," **Votlin commanded of whoever might be on the other side. **"We're going to pry the door open. Miller, give me a hand with this." **He crouched down and wrapped his fingers under the bottom of the door, and gestured for Miller to do the same. Miller complied, albeit reluctantly.

**"One... Two... Three... **_**Lift**_**," **the Sergeant said. Miller started pulling up on the bottom of the door, which was even harder than he expected. The damn thing weighed a _ton_, though the only thing that had stopped it from closing completely was a man's spine. That was almost fortunate for the girl, in a sick sort of way.

As they lifted the door enough to clear the doorway- Albeit at a slight crouch- Votlin and Eyden entered the room, swinging their flashlights around, slowly scanning over the room. There were several items scattered across the floor. Buckets, pans, tools of all kinds. This was most likely what they had heard clatter. They were close to a shelf, suggesting they'd been knocked off of it.

Nothing suspect there.

Nothing had jumped out at them yet, either. That was promising.

Then Votlin and Eyden's lights crossed on her at the same time. A little girl, as suspected. She was hiding under a table in the far corner of the room, trembling and shaking uncontrollably. Her face was marred in a way that looked as if a bear had clawed her, and she was completely covered in blood.


	19. Not Quite Memory Lane

Miller made an official decision that his life couldn't get much worse.

The small group had decided they needed to desperately push forward, because the sounds coming from the gates were less than promising. He was certain that if the aliens were capable of any cognitive reasoning, they'd have soon figured out that they had more than enough strength to bend and break the metal that divided them from the living. He was also sure they would've gained some sick satisfaction from the scene.

Between all this and the fact that they were sure they were sitting in the middle of a possible ambush waiting to happen and that the bastards hadn't just up and left, the "squad" kept moving.

They were now marching through the subway tunnel, along the tracks for the MagLev trains that would normally be passing through. Nobody spared a glance over their shoulder for the train, they knew that they wouldn't be operational. If they were, their lights would give them the signal to get out of the way anyhow.

But they did spare a few glances to see if the freaks were hot on their heels or not.

The tunnels were dark, as expected. The Army and Marines continued to use their gun-mounted or helmet-mounted flashlights, and Miller continued to use the low-light vision capabilities that came with his helmet. They moved mostly in silence, because the tunnels echoed with every word spoken, and every step taken. Since they were trying to achieve minimal detection, and furthermore detect any hostiles or general movement, that was a problem.

The girl didn't seem to have any problem with the concept of silence at least. She hadn't spoken a damn word since they found her. A couple short, incoherent mumbles, or a sudden sob, but that was about it. As it was they had to physically pull her out of her hiding place, and she definitely did not come willingly. She scratched, kicked, and even bit at them.

Thank God for armor.

Definitely not much to look at, either. She definitely wasn't a teenager yet, and the only thing remarkable about her actual form was the fact that she had all the mass of a toothpick. Brown haired, brown eyed, and pale like she hadn't seen nearly enough sun.

She had been wearing jean-shorts and a shirt that was either light blue or white at one point in time, but now it was all crimson. The fact that she was barefoot forced everybody to consider just how far she could make it on foot. Given the fact that she was a small child, obviously not in greatest of health, and not really well-equipped for distance.

Everyone was certain that she might black out at any second, too. The reason for that consisted of several things. High stress, dehydration, and physical strain, for a few reasons. Other reasons included the massive gashes across her face, which were still ragged and torn. Miller wasn't sure what could've _possibly_ caused that, and neither were the others.

The closest thing he could think of was a Goddamn lawnmower.

** "Shit," **somebody muttered in the gloom, and Miller noticed a slight fade. He glanced in the direction of the person who'd said it. The Sergeant was fumbling with his weapon, flipping the switch repeatedly to the flashlight. It wasn't turning on. **"Light's dead."**

** "Swap me, I don't need one," **Miller called, turning on his weapon's light. He and the Sergeant were using the same kind of weapon anyhow, so he wasn't at any loss. Votlin tossed his rifle at Miller, who caught it and traded his off in the same fashion. The rifle had been recently reloaded. No complaints there.

The group continued onward quietly.

Apparently the silence apparently became too much for the Captain, who had the little girl close by him. Apparently the fact that one of his arms was nothing more than a ragged stump didn't bother her. Miller was certain that she was a Goddamn nutjob by this point, and for good reason. Any kid who looked like her probably shouldn't have been alive.

**"So, girlie, you got a name?" **Lager asked nonchalantly but tiredly. As he probably expected, he didn't get an answer back. He waited a few minutes more. Miller supposed he was waiting to see if the girl was mulling over whether she could trust them or not.

**"Hey, that's fine,"** said Lager, patiently. **"You don't wanna talk to us, you don't have to. You can just stay along for the ride while we get you outta here. How's that sound?"** The Captain added a smile that he knew the girl wouldn't see. She refused to even look at any of them, and seemed to stare off into space for the majority of the time.

Miller doubted she was even living in the same world as the rest of them anymore. Her body was present and could be pushed in the right direction, but her mind was in some other place. Maybe some place that little girls dreamed about, full of rainbows and butterflies and all that other crap that Miller never understood how they could possibly like.

**"But, if you don't at least tell me your name, then I'm gonna hafta make one up for ya." **The Captain didn't draw another reaction, even though he was prying for one.

**"Maybe Newt," **Miller suggested, sarcastically.

** "**_**Newt?**_**" **Votlin questioned. **"Did I just hear that right?"**

**"Yep. Call her Newt."**

** "You **_**can't**_** be serious."**

** "Why not?"**

A long silence followed before somebody finally spoke up, which was several minutes later. **"Son, you've been watching too many Twentieth-Century Sci-Fi movies," **the Captain said. **"That shit comes straight out of **_**Aliens.**_**"**

** "Was it that obvious?" **Miller asked quietly.

**"To somebody who's watched 'em."**

**"Well. Biological enemy that spreads through living hosts in a FUBAR environment, pastes tunnels with some kind of organic shit, semi-Human characteristics, and the infectors come outta pods," **Miller said, feeling his face go red with embarrassment. **"So we find this creepy little girl-"**

** "Miller!"**

** "- Hidin' out from us, scares the shit outta us in the process-"**

** "Private!"**

** "And then we take her along for the ride, and she doesn't fucking talk," **Miller finished. **"Sounds about right** **to me."**

** "Stow your shit, Private, or the next group of freaks we come across, I'm feedin' your ass to 'em,"** the Captain said sternly. He _meant_ what he was saying, but Miller wasn't too concerned.

**"Or what? You gonna come beat me with your arm that you've been carryin' around for ****so fucking long, Captain Ahab?" **the Private questioned. **"Get over it. We're the last men standing, rank don't mean shit. UNSC finally found its match, fuckin' space barnacles."**

Miller felt the blow before he saw it, and was flat on his ass, with the Captain standing over him, pistol in hand. **"Shut. The fuck. Up. Private. Next words I hear comin' from you that're full of bitchin', I'll shoot your ass myself."**

Miller got slowly to his feet. He felt all the blood rushing to his face, which he was glad the Captain couldn't see. It was twisted in anger. **"Yes, sir," **he said, forcing the words through locked teeth. The words felt like they'd been through a cheese grater.

**"Good,"** said the Captain, turning away. **"Everyone, keep movin'. Nothin' to see here."**

There was another lengthy silence. Miller was getting tired of those, but for now he was okay with it. He knew he needed to calm down, but the deeper they got in, the more shit got shoveled on top of them. Seemed like his whole damn life was going that way ever since he joined Ion. Ion and the fucking Spook, Rommel.

**"... Space barnacles?" **Votlin asked suddenly, but quietly, as though it only just now hit him that he had no idea what that meant.

**"Yeah, **_**space barnacles**_**. Barnacles, **_**from space**_**," **Miller said, the sarcasm so thick that it would've frothed at his mouth and formed a cloud around his head if it was in a corporeal form.

**"The fuck?" **the Sergeant asked. **"Who the fuck came up with that shit?"**

**"The Goddamn Senior," **Miller said wearily. **"If he's not dead, I hope he's rotting in a pit somewhere."**

** "You don't mean that."**

** "You're right," **Miller said. **"I hope he's had his arms and legs torn off and somebody's beating him with them right now."**

** "Private, what'd I tell you about that bullshit?"**

** "Blow me!"**


	20. Luck of the Draw

**/SCPO EDWARD ROMMEL/**

**/March 4, 2549 (MILITARY CALENDAR)/**

**/0000 Hours/**

**/OUTER_COLONY: NASIP/**

**/NEW POPLAVA CITY/**

**/STATUS: RED/**

_"I started off the day with five well-trained elite Orbital Drop Shock Troopers who qualified for an Office of Naval Intelligence unit. By this point I have personally been forced to re-kill two of them. One of them got up again, apparently. To the best of my knowledge I have a third man down as well. Yep. This day just keeps getting better. At least now I've got something to dull it with. Gonna try and make it to Kovcheg, for some reason or another. Hopefully if we die on the way there somebody finds this and figures out that the whole fucking planet's gone Night of the Living Dead on us and they need to get the fuck out of here._

_ Dieter, Tanya. Remember when you told me to follow in your footsteps and do all that fancy business bullshit? __I should have listened.__ Now I'm stuck on some place in the Outer Rim fighting some kind of Goddamn space zombies. Probably fucked._

_ 'Course, that ain't saying much. You two are dead too. So would I if I took your advice._

_ Casualties as of March 3, 2549 | 2230 Hours_

_SSGT. Taylor Campbell – Confirmed KIA (Sort of)_

_LCPL. Mark Findish – Confirmed KIA_

_PFC. Travis Miller – MIA (Assumed KIA)"_

Every fiber of Rommel's being was sore from being abused in ways that he hadn't been forced to endure for a long time, mentally and physically. In the past twenty four hours he'd been forced to spend most of his time running away, being thrown around inside or out of vehicles, being shot, bitten, slashed, and strangled, and physically exerted.

But all of that was still a fairly far cry from rotting in a ditch or having been ripped limb from limb. He'd experienced worse, but he hadn't had to do any _serious_ jobs in around five years- Albeit, most of that was spent in cryo. Rommel didn't believe in wasting his time with that "socializing" bullshit that so many people were fond of.

What did he have to offer to a social conversation, after all? He had no wife or girlfriend to write home to and speak about to anybody else. He didn't have any kids to banter on about. For that matter, even if he had any, he was almost eighty years old, despite how he might have appeared. His kids would've been older than him, at least physically.

He didn't go out into the civilian world enough recently to know a lot about what was going on out there. Most people didn't want to hear about the time he decapitated a Prophet, or the time he used a Covenant capital ship as a battering ram, how high his kill confirmed kill count was, or anything like that. Nobody believed it anyway when he tried to tell them.

And he was fine with that. He just stopped wasting his time.

Rommel continuously clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to make sure that the damn thing worked. Earlier, his hand looked like something out of a Walt Disney cartoon. Now it wasn't quite as swollen, but he didn't care. As long as he could fire a weapon he'd make due. He was strong enough to fire the MA2B with one hand. It was a carbine, so it was lightweight. That wasn't to say he could do so _effectively_, but if all else failed, he had a pistol for back-up, and he had enough ammunition to burn through a whole damn horde of the bastards.

And himself if need be. He was reluctant to accept that reality, but that's what it was. Reality.

Like many things in life, he'd get over it.

Not that that was a major problem at the moment, as far as the carbine went. He was currently still toting around the flamethrower. He constantly checked the readout that stated the fuel capacity's percentage to make sure that it wasn't a glitch in the system, so to speak. It was still about halfway full. Flamethrowers didn't exactly preserve fuel very well, though advances in technology allowed for more efficient consumption, range, and other such things.

As the Senior Chief Petty Officer continued to move through the street with Almec, he was forced to stop on several occasions. To fight, to hide, and once, to stop the clinking of the bottles that he'd tied to his belt. He'd taken a trio of alcohol bottles with him. He wasn't entirely sure why, other than that he felt like he might want a drink later on. He stuffed two of them into his rucksack, and simply secured the last one a little more efficiently.

The streets of the city were even more overrun than he'd remembered. The mutant bastards ran rampant in the streets, looking constantly for who they would consume next. Some he burned. Some he shot. All of them proved to be a pain in the ass.

Curiously, it seemed that the more time went on, the more the creatures changed. The ones they had encountered at first had a vague semblance of being Human or alien, but now they were... Much less recognizable. They seemed to have that biomass crap built up around them far more, for one. For two, their tentacle-like attachments almost seemed to have formed into usable digits. For three, they were _smarter._

On several occasions they played dead and waited for the duo to come in range. On plenty more they had set up ambushes from within buildings, and jumped out when they were in the area. On far too many they displayed their ability to re-animate themselves by acquiring a new parasite.

On _all_ occasions, Rommel and Almec made double-sure they were dead.

**"So, Rommel..." **Almec asked, gazing out over a railing. They were crossing a bridge now, something that they had both agreed they didn't care for, but it seemed to be less time consuming. It also seemed to be deserted, which could've been either a good thing, or a complete trap. **"What, exactly, do we do if there isn't anything at Kovcheg?"**

The Spook took in a deep breath, and let it out in the form of a sigh. **"We went over this. If there's nothing at Kovcheg, we raid it, we slag it, and we move on," **he said quietly. He felt as though talking too loud would result in unwanted eyes gazing down upon them and opening fire. A good portion of his armor was being held together by duct tape as it was, and he didn't want to try and piece more of it back together with it.

Duct tape.

That stuff served as a miracle worker. In times where bandages weren't available, they could be used as tourniquets or simple ways of stopping bleeding. If a suit had taken damage, a bit of the stuff could patch it up- Which, in fact, allowed it to be sealed and pressurized without any leaks. It could also gag, bind, choke, or otherwise be used to cause pain if interrogation was placed on the table.

Never to be used if the real deal was available, but a viable option for when things hit the fan.

Today, things were hitting the fan at a pretty steady pace.

**"You said we'd move on to the Super?" **Almec asked, his voice doubtful. Odd. Rommel recalled that he'd earlier been fairly keen on the plan. Or maybe that was just Rommel's mind imagining things for him in a state of semi-delirium. As it was, he did not feel very well. He hadn't been sick for as long as he could remember, so even a fever was worrying to him.

He had his fingers crossed to the idea that these damned things didn't transmit through bites. **"We'll find a way into the Super, and we'll see if it's got anything worth stealing. Spirits, Phantoms, Space-Banshees... Bonus points if we can score a Corvette." **

** "And if we don't find anything like that...?"**

** "In the highly unlikely event that we can't find a **_**single**_** Spirit, Phantom, or pair of Space-Banshees," **Rommel said, his voice annoyed, his boots suddenly heavy on his feet. **"Then we slag the fuckin' Super, too."**

Almec didn't respond at first, but Rommel saw the question from a mile away. **"So, how are we gonna blow up something that big, Ed?"**

** "Fer one, stop callin' me Ed. Ain't anybody's called me that and got away with it in twen'y years," **Rommel replied, punching the other guy in the shoulder. He wished he hadn't, because the pain in his hand flared up. Biofoam was some good stuff. Not as good as actual medical supplies. **"Second off, I'm bankin' on an exposed reactor, engines, something. Covenant shit doesn't like to be shot at or have explosives tossed into it."**

Almec stopped in his tracks. Rommel didn't, because he wasn't going to play this game. He was already tired of discussing it. Almec was his best friend, but today he didn't know it. **"Keep movin'."**

** "You just expect to march in there?"**

** "Kind of."**

** "Jesus Christ, do you have any idea just how many of those... Those... **_**Things**_** there probably are guarding it? Even remotely?" **Almec's voice was almost painfully high in pitch.

**"Quiet down. Don't let 'em-"**

** "No, Ed. Today you're not Lieutenant, or sir, or any other bullshit. There **_**is**_** no UNSC here, you said it yourself!"**

Rommel wasn't sure how he'd managed to about-face, stomp the ten feet between him and Almec, and drive the man into the railing within a split second. But the next thing he knew, he had Almec by the throat in an iron grip, and had him pinned against the railing, his head over the side. It was a pretty far fall to the depths below, and his suit wasn't sealed at the moment.

**"Shut the **_**fuck up, **_**Dominic. Today's been one of the shittiest days of our lives, and **_**bitching **_**about it isn't gonna make it any better," **he growled, violently shaking the man as he said the words through locked teeth. The man batted at Rommel's arm, but the Senior had found strength in rage. He'd been doing it for the entirety of his life, after all. The concerning fact was that the Senior was only using one hand.

**"Now I'm gonna tell you this slowly, so open your **_**fuckin' **_**ears. If we're fucked, we haven't got **_**anything to lose anyway. **_**It doesn't matter **_**how many of 'em**_** there are, because **_**we're gonna die anyway **_**if we don't try**_**.**_**" **His voice was that of a cheese-grater on a chalkboard. He felt his grip tighten a little more. **"If there's **_**too many of 'em**_**, then we **_**churn through 'em like we already have.**_**"**

He let go of the man with a slight shove, and Almec slumped down to the ground, gripping at his throat, glowering up at Rommel with the look of death on his face. Rommel offered a hand to help him to his feet, but instead Almec climbed up to his feet on his own, and continued to walk forward.

Rommel was debating on one of those statements. Was this really one of the worst days of their lives? Easily. The worst for he himself? Probably not, no. Not yet. He had a feeling it was just getting started.

His thought process was interrupted when the ground began to tremble and shake. The two both looked around frantically, trying to find what might have been the source of this disturbance... But none was to be found. Nonetheless, everything continued to shake and tremble...

And the ground they were standing on began to crack.

**"C'mon, move, move! Go!" **Rommel shouted at Almec. They were on a fairly large bridge. They needed to get to the other side quickly. They both began to sprint across the bridge, pieces crumbling beneath them. Rommel was far too concerned with running to stop and ponder the terrible structuring that would've been required for it to fall apart this easily.

Rommel passed up Almec quickly. He always had been faster.

**"Uggh! Rommel!"**

Rommel spun around. Almec had tripped, and the ground was still collapsing. It collapsed right out from under Almec- Who would've plummeted if it wasn't for Rommel grabbing him at the last second. **"Not gonna die on me that easily!"**

He started to pull the man up, and made the discovery that the ground below him was still cracking. He pulled harder. He felt every muscle in his being straining to lift the ODST, so much to the point that he slipped and fell on his back. **"Rommel, the bridge is falling apart! **_**Go!**_**"**

** "**_**No! **_**I got you, Goddammit!"**

The ground had stopped shaking, but the bridge was so structurally damaged now that it didn't matter. There was still a good twenty feet between him and the other side. _So... Damn... Close!_

Then came screams.

Rommel looked up. On the other side of the bridge were several of the garden-variety undead bastards. Several of them seemed to have mutated _far_ more heavily, to the point where their tentacle appendages on their arms were no longer even tentacles or gripping devices, but ended in sharp points that gave the idea they were blades_._ He didn't want to know how they had managed that, nor did he imagine he wanted to know if they could function to stab or slash.

More concerning was the fact that they were riding _inside_ a hulking giant of a creature. It looked like a giant hollowed-out beetle. The thing had a head similar to the behemoths that seemed to be able to transform on demand, four massive, jointed legs that ended in claw-like appendages, and was _easily_ as big as a Scorpion tank.

The combat forms piled out of the transporter, some of them armed, others not. The armed ones opened fire with their weapons, but were too far away to be accurate enough to harm them. And the unarmed ones could do nothing but watch.

Rommel tried more desperately to pull Almec up, but the ground was disagreeing heavily with him. He felt himself slip a little more, felt the ground crumble a little more.

Then one of the rounds finally struck home as an Elite combat form landed a shot with a Concussion Rifle. The ground around Rommel's feet cracked and shattered under him, leaving him for the fall. He reached out to grip something, anything- and found only the air was there to catch him. Gravity ruled.

Now in a freefall, Rommel glanced at what lay below. Ice and snow. Was there water underneath it? He hoped so. If not, he was going to have a disappointing end to today's adventure.

Even as he was falling, he glanced at Almec. The man was looking up at him. He imagined a thousand different expressions under that helmet, but he was sure none of them matched.

**"I'm so sorry."**

He heard the words, felt the words, but didn't recognize the voice. Only after he realized it was his own voice did he realize that what may have been the ground was a mere foot away. He shut his eyes, and hoped for the best.


	21. Nothing Else Matters

The dull thump of snow being compacted was followed by a loud crack as ice was broken. White powder flew in all directions, and completely blocked out Rommel's view of anything. Not that it really mattered, since after he broke right through the ice the only thing he could see was darkness as he went underwater.

His mind was running at a thousand thoughts a second, all of them perfectly coordinated: _Did I just get injured? Is my gear still here? Do I have my weapon? Am I going to be able to get out of here?_ Variables that he couldn't afford to discover the answer to was no, because they spelled out imminent doom.

Funny that only one of them showed up as being more prominent than the rest: _Where's Dominic?_

Low-light vision wouldn't help if there was no light to begin with, especially if he was at a depth so far down that there was nothing but water. If he was on the bottom, it wouldn't matter anyway, unless he wanted to try finding a car someone had accidentally parked at the bottom, or pick up loose change.

He raised up his hand to the HU/RS on his helmet, and clicked on the high-power flashlight. The darkness scattered wherever he shined it, to a certain degree. The light only penetrated so far. He wasn't at the bottom, which was fortunate given that he couldn't even _see_ the bottom, flashlight or not. He looked upward, and saw the ice that separated the surface world from him. That was where he needed to go.

But that wasn't his immediate concern. His immediate concern was where Almec had gone.

When he glanced up, he couldn't find the point where he'd hit the ice and broken through. Most likely in the process of thrashing about and simply drifting, he'd displaced himself from it too much. That said, he couldn't see Almec's point of impact either. He wasn't even sure if the man had broken through, although it was doubtful that he didn't.

Even as he glanced about the depths, he couldn't see Almec. The man had hit before he had, definitely. Unless he had been knocked unconscious by the impact, which was _highly_ unlikely, then he'd probably gotten started on swimming to the surface again, though the distance between them was too much for him to be seen through the murk. Hell, he wasn't even getting signs of his IFF.

As Rommel made his way to the surface, unconcerned about how much time he'd spent searching for Almec in the sense of how much oxygen he'd just wasted, his mind became a fickle thing. It implanted the seed of doubt, and made him remember something that he'd noticed earlier: Almec's helmet hadn't been sealed.

He felt his stomach knot itself up, and his heart rammed itself into his throat. He _really_ hoped Almec hadn't gone down deep or been knocked unconscious. Maybe he had already made it to the surface and was somewhere up there waiting for him to come out.

He hit the ice within a couple minutes. It wasn't thick, but even with his immense strength he wouldn't be able to bust through it easily. He pulled his MA2B from its magnetic strips, placed the barrel just far away from the ice to where the water that would fill the barrel could be pushed out, and pulled the trigger. Bubbles spayed backward for a brief second, and when he pulled it away there was a decently-sized hole.

He ripped out his combat knife, and got to work at chipping away at the ice, stabbing and sawing at it, pulling and grabbing and punching his way until it was big enough for him to pull himself out of it.

None too soon, either. His oxygen was at about a couple minutes.

He still waited a moment, however, as the snow fell through the hole and dispersed in the water. Then, he hesitantly pulled himself through, though only halfway at first. He raised his assault rifle, doing a slow sweep of the area around him. No shambling freaks to take a shit on his day again. He'd had enough of this falling down shit for one day.

No Almec, either.

He slowly pulled himself up and out of the water, cautiously glancing around to be sure that some asshole didn't pop out screaming at him and trying to completely destroy him, or assimilate him, or whatever it decided. Even despite the fact that the area was seemingly clear, he still got the feeling that there were things _watching him._ He didn't know where, but he felt them.

Paranoia at its best.

He managed to shuffle his way through the snow, and pulled himself onto the concrete docking platform. This area was frozen. That meant it didn't flow, so he couldn't have been far from where he had fallen. He glanced about, and finally spotted the place he'd fallen through. There were two holes, alright.

The one he was sure was his had a familiar object laying next to it. His flamethrower. It had probably been severed from the fuel line when the Conker-Rifle hit. He considered briefly going to retrieve it, but upon second thought, while it was useful, it also would weigh him down more. Especially if it was low on fuel.

_If_ the damn thing worked after all that.

The other hole in the ice had footprints in the snow leading away, on the other side of the river. Only, it wasn't just one pair of footprints. It was multiple. Spent shell casings littered the ground, as did green goop and little pieces of the creatures from Hell. The lack of bodies was disappointing.

He followed the trail with his eyes. The green shit led up to a platform on the other side, and through a door that looked like it had been forced open with blunt force, rather than having been unlocked already.

It couldn't have been that long ago. Almec couldn't have made it too far away yet.

He slogged through the thick of the snow again until he made it to the other side, and followed in through the door. He began to sprint after the trail. He wasn't sure where it was leading him, but he damn sure hoped that when he got there it wouldn't be too late for him to be of any help. He was a fast runner, but that didn't amount for shit if someone was dead by the time he got there.

Before long he realized that the tunnel he was running along was filled with biomass. It was like walking through rotted, decaying flesh and garbage. The walls had those giant pustule sacks on them, which he was afraid might potentially burst at any moment and send a swarm of parasites after him to turn him into one of the horde. Likewise, the walls, the floor, and even the ceiling had dead bodies either pasted to it or hanging from it.

He couldn't help but remember their last excursion underground. One of the bodies on the wall had burst open and grabbed Findish, tried to rip him to pieces or infect him or some shit like that. None of these _looked_ like they harbored any lethal intent, but then again, dead bodies seldom did. For the purpose of caution, he kept his distance from the ones on the walls. Those on the floor or ceiling he would just have to deal with.

He heard the sounds of gunfire in the distance, as well as unintelligible yelling.

Rommel picked up the pace even more.

He imagined tendrils coming down from the ceiling to grip at him, coming up from the ground to trip him up, from the walls to tear him apart. He imagined the sacks all bursting at once, their contents all crawling and eager to turn him. He imagined a horde of the mutants to peel themselves off their hiding places among the walls and floors to attack him.

None of these things could stop him now. His friend was in danger. Almec's life at this point was more important than his own; Almec had people waiting for him back home. Rommel didn't, and he always felt guilty every time he was forced to tear Almec away from his family. It wasn't right, but everyone had made their commitments.

He rounded corners, he backtracked to find different routes, he found more open doors, and yet none of them seemed to actually lead anywhere. Noise built upon noise, resulting in sounds being _everywhere,_ but _where was the source?_ **"Almec?" **he shouted, trying to provoke a response. **"Goddammit, where the Hell are you?"**

More gunfire. The sound of inhuman things wailing in rage.

As good a sign as any, he followed it. **"Dom, ya hear me? Where are you, you son of a bitch?"** he called. **"Just hold on 'til I can get there!"**

The corridors didn't ever seem to end. The sounds, on the other hand, did. Pushing himself even harder, Rommel continued to follow the trail of green shit and shell casings. Finally, there was another door. It was closed, but the trail led to the other side of it. He slammed hard into it, unhinging it and causing it to hit the ground. He barreled past it, and suddenly found himself outside.

He was in the middle of a snow-covered street. The shell casings were gone, the blood trails led in all directions, there was nothing to hear, and nothing was in his sight. Out here, the man could've gone anywhere. **"Almec!"** he called again, desperately. **"**_**Answer me, Goddammit! WHERE ARE YOU?**_**" **

He felt his boot land on something which rolled under him, and he tripped over it.

He felt his rifle leave his hands. His right hand went to his thigh, and ripped his pistol from its holster. A twitch reaction, rather than a conscious one. He aimed it around briefly, before glancing at what he'd tripped over. At first glance, it looked like a black ball stuck in the snow. On second glance, it wasn't even close to being a ball.

He sat up slowly, staring at it intently. No, it was a far cry from a simple ball. He was looking at a helmet. He inched his way toward it, pulling himself along the pavement with his left hand and his heels. He glanced around to make sure that his first assessment of the area was correct, and that it was, in fact, safe to just sit there.

He reached out with a trembling hand to grab the object, and withdrew it at first. Calming himself slightly, he got a grip on the object, and pulled it out of the snow. Knocking the extra powder off it, he turned it around so that the front of it would face him. His fears were confirmed. It was an ODST helmet. It looked just like Dominic's, too- Although the fact that the inside was wet from water and blood didn't help his anxieties at all.

The visor was shattered, for the most part. There was a hole that didn't look like it came from a bullet in the left eye, and the other side of the helmet was cracked like it had taken a direct hit from a _truck. _He began slowly turning the helmet over in his hands. It had that slimy crap all over it, too.

He'd known Almec since he was a little kid. They had been together since preschool. When his parents had forced him to go to a public school, most people shunned him for being a spoiled, introverted rich kid. Dominic Almec had been there from day one.

Their time together only strengthened everything, and though they had their scuffles, nothing could separate them. When Eddie Rommel had joined a team, Dominic Almec was right there alongside him. When Rommel joined the UNSC Marine Corps after his aunt, uncle, and cousins had been killed in an Insurgent attack, Almec was right alongside him, even if _both_ their parents thought they shouldn't join. They had fought together for several years in the Marine Corps until different career choices split them up.

But they _always_ stayed in contact, and they _always_ watched each others' backs whenever possible. And as whatever higher powers seemed to have had it, they were reunited after Rommel joined ONI and assembled his team. They fought through the Insurgents and the Covenant for so long that Rommel wasn't even sure what the numbers were anymore.

_Harvest, Arcadia, Jericho, Groombridge, New Harmony, Miridem, Skopje, and so many more- Did any of them even fucking matter? _

He brought his head down slowly, resting it against the forehead of Almec's helmet. Time was flashing in front of his very eyes as he remembered everything, experienced a thousand emotions _raging_ within him. His head was spinning so fast that he felt physically ill, his body _burned_ with unparalleled rage and agony. His hands began shaking uncontrollably, and his entire body soon followed.

His vision blurred. He felt the side of his face become wet suddenly, and he began to sob uncontrollably. _Get up, you idiot, get up, you can't just sit here!_ He knew he shouldn't, but he didn't even care anymore. Earth be damned, UNSC be damned, Covenant be damned, war be damned, and everything else could go burn in Hell for all he cared.

All he could do was scream inside his helmet, where nobody else could hear him, could see his face. Where time didn't matter, where sound didn't matter, where _nothing else mattered._

When everything subsided to enough of a degree to where he could think clearly, he holstered his pistol. His rifle was laying next to him anyway, where he'd dropped it. He knew he couldn't just sit there and sob and throw a fit, no matter how much he wanted to. And he _definitely_ wanted to. But he could feel them. He couldn't see them, but he _knew_ they were there, watching him, waiting. A thousand eyes peering from a thousand windows, and a thousand voices sharing their laughter at his demise.

The Spook stood up slowly, and dropped the helmet back on the ground. He collected the assault rifle, and took a deep breath. It took every ounce of his strength to move his feet from their spots, as if they were rooted there. **"I guess this is goodbye, Dom. Thanks... For everything."**

Almec or no Almec, he needed to push forward. He was vaguely aware that he was standing in the outskirts of the city. How long had he been running, how long had he been traveling? His HUD didn't say, and his armor-mounted watch was broken now. He began to slowly walk away, leaving memories in his wake.

As he came to the top of the hill, he could see Kovcheg. Possible salvation was near.

He'd never felt so alone in the world in all his life.


	22. Dead End

**/PFC TRAVIS MILLER/**

**/March 4, 2549 (MILITARY CALENDAR)/**

**/0100 Hours/**

**/OUTER_COLONY: NASIP/**

**/ONI BASE KOVCHEG PERIMETER, NEW POPLAVA CITY OUTSKIRTS/**

**/STATUS: RED/**

Miller stared at Kovcheg from about about a hundred meters away, glaring at it through the built-in zoom feature in his HUD. It was _not_ the same place it had been when he'd left it, that was for sure. He remembered the building's strange design, its onyx-colored exterior, the massive walls that surrounded it, and all the emplacements that guarded it along the way.

The trail leading up to Kovcheg wasn't littered with dead bodies, which normally would've been a good sign. But the pools of blood and discarded limbs made that more of an eerie fact than anything else. Vehicles of varying types could be seen all across the landscape, building seemed only half-there. It looked like the entire top half of the building was ablaze. It had massive holes blown through it that were reminiscent of mortar-based damage.

The smoke around the building was so thick that it was hard to see... But the smoke didn't seem as though it was _just_ smoke. It was like the Supercarrier. Those little spores were filling the air up around the base, airborne and heading for some unknown destination at some other point on the planet. Avoiding them was impossible, because they were_ everywhere._

Miller slid back down the small hill that overlooked the trail, to the rest of the survivors that he'd been traveling with. Everyone looked at him expectantly, and he said nothing for a moment, glancing about for a moment. The Captain coughed, and held up his hand in a way to show that he was waiting. **"Well? What did you see up there?"**

Miller chewed on his lip for a moment as he thought about what to say. **"Not did see. **_**Didn't see. **_**That's just the problem, I can't see any movement. The place is slagged for sure, but we all knew that,"** he said, keeping his voice down on the off-chance he was wrong. **"I don't like it. They're definitely there, and they probably know we're here."**

The Captain frowned, and glanced upward at the fire and smoke. Miller knew what he was thinking. Monsters like these would probably be expected to just wander aimlessly, with no real goal or purpose other than to kill- Or so one would believe, based on movies.

Lager nodded. **"They are getting smarter. Probably on the wall, or just past it. Easily defensible positions. And if they have taken over, they are probably **_**our guys.**_** Which means they will be decently equipped, outfitted for base duty..." **He sighed, and gestured toward the base. **"Heavy resistance sums it up." **

At first the words meant nothing to Miller except what he already knew. It wasn't until he further reflected on them that he understood their _actual_ meaning, however, **"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait. You're not actually talking about **_**going up there**_**, are you?"**

Lager simply stared at him, blank-faced.

**"You've gotta be shitting me! You just said it yourself, there's gotta be-"**

** "Private, I tell you what. If you can think of another place in less than fifty meters that has a space-faring vessel that will get us off this rock, or at the very least something capable of flight, we will go there instead," **the Captain responded, smiling in a way that indicated he'd already rejected anything Miller was about to say.

The man stood up slowly, and threw his thumb over his shoulder. **"Now considering civilization's a couple kilometers in **_**that**_** direction, I'm going to guess you're shit out of luck." **He removed his pistol from its holster, and gestured with it toward the base. **"Let's move, people."**

Miller sighed, and glanced up at the base again. Would it be too much to hope that the place would just burn down and collapse, killing everyone in the area other than him? It probably would be. Fate just didn't seem to be on his side today, not in the least.

Somebody stopped following the Captain, standing beside him for a moment. He looked up briefly, and it proved to be the Sergeant.

**"Don't worry, Private,"** the Sergeant said calmly, punching him a playful punch in the shoulder in the shoulder. **"The Captain is not always this way. Just around assholes. Do you make a habit of bringing out the worst in people?"** He didn't stop for a response, apparently not expecting one, instead opting just to walk away.

**"Yeah, well... Fuck you too!" **Miller shouted at him, awarding him a chuckle that he could only guess meant he'd just made an idiot of himself.

**"Shut it, both of you," **the Captain said, quietly but sternly. **"Or else I'll drop kick both of you off the planet."**

Miller sighed. He'd lost. He just couldn't win today. Life sucked, they were doomed, and he was following around an amputee, a driver with the IQ of a post-it note, a Sergeant who hated his guts, and a mute child who belonged in the Special Olympics. **"That'd be nice..." **he mumbled, opting to follow them.

They followed the trail up through the bushes as far as it would go- Which was about ten meters away from the front gate. The wall that surrounded the perimeter of the base itself was massive, usually with armed guards and automated turrets overlooking the approach, specifically to guard the massive gate. The gate itself was large enough to fit a pair of Scorpion tanks through it side by side, though it had never needed to accommodate that.

The wall looked as though it had been shelled by mortar fire, and the gate looked like a _giant_ simply crushed it and threw it aside. That went double for the fact that the gate was, in fact, completely detached from the wall, both ends of it crumpled like pieces of paper and strewn out _in front_ of the base.

**"Somebody went through here with Hell's battering ram," **Eyden said quietly, gesturing toward the gate. **"It'd take a **_**Scarab**_** to get those kinds of results. That's a few meters' worth of-"**

** "**_**Shut up!**_** Up high- Two, three o' clock,"** the Captain hissed, throwing the barrel of his pistol up toward the direction he was talking about.

Miller glanced about at the specified areas, and at first didn't notice anything. When he zoomed in with the built-in binoculars his helmet offered, however, he came to a totally different story. At both of the spots indicated, there were a pair of the mutated freaks- One Human, one Elite in both pairs.

**"Two at each point, one Human, one Elite a piece. Two o' clock's got a Carbine and a '37. Three's got an SRS and a Marksman Rifle," **he reported, indicating the pairs as he spoke. He paused, and glared at them. They weren't moving, or even appearing to be combat-ready. They instead just stood at ease, as if nothing was happening... And glaring _straight at them._

**"Captain... Those fuckers are staring at us."**

** "What do you mean, standing there?"** Eyden asked, leaning in and squinting as if to get a better look. He did not have the luxury of a high-tech helmet.

** "I mean they're **_**standing there. **_**Facing **_**our direction. **_**Looking **_**downward.**_** At **_**us.**_** Not **_**shooting.**_** What the fuck did you think I meant?" **Miller growled, nearly tripping over his words as he spat them out like a machine gun.

** "Why the fuck are they doing that?" **Lager asked, staring up at the seemingly apathetic hostiles.

**"What do I look like, a fucking zombie psychologist?" **

** "No, you look like an asshole Gyrene who's about to get a foot up his ass. Now cut the bullshit and get specif-"**

A loud shot rang out, and Miller felt himself sprayed with red mist. Eyden spun about in place for a moment, flinging a red, liquid ribbon as he did so. Flesh and bone ripped apart and cracked, and internal organs were involuntarily forced to become external. The Private hit the ground in two different pieces- His upper torso hit the ground intact, spraying blood as a geyser as he gurgled our his last breaths, while his legs splayed themselves at awkward angles about five feet away.

**"**_**Sniper!**_**" **Votlin screamed out, diving for cover behind what little there was. No sooner than he did, the inhuman wail rose up in unison, and a wave of the undead seemed to pour over the side of the wall. A hailstorm of bullets came raining down from the wall.

**"Which side did that come from? The left, or the right?" **the Captain called out, having to yell to avoid being drowned out by the incoming and outgoing fire.

**"Neither!" **Miller called back. **"It came from the fuckers who're pouring over the side, the bastards just pulled a surprise on us while we were too damn confused to do anything about it!"**

There was a very short distance between them and the incoming wave of seemingly endless freaks. They were only three, and there was an unknown amount of the freaks pouring in.

**"We ain't got a lot of options here, Captain!"** Miller shouted, stepping out from cover for a moment to hose down the closest three that were coming at him- Which in and of itself took a whole magazine to accomplish. _Dammit, they're hard to kill! _**"What's the plan here?"**

** "Kill all the motherfuckers, we ain't gonna outrun 'em!" **Lager yelled, the sounds of his 12.7mm pistol accenting the point he was trying to make.

**"Captain, there is **_**no way**_** we are going to manage to kill all of them!" **Votlin shouted. He poured out the remnants of his magazine into the hostiles and reached for a new magazine.

**"I don't like this plan!" **Miller yelled back, pulling a grenade from his combat webbing. He hit the primer on it, and hurled it. It landed somewhere in the massive group and blew up a few of the freaks before they could get any closer, sending rotten meat in all directions. **"We **_**need**_** to get the fuck out of here!"**

** "Running ain't going to help us now, son!" **The pistol fire halted for a moment and continued. **"Ain't nowhere to go to!"**

** "Easy for you to say when you've only got one arm and a bad case of hypothermia!" **

**"Private shut the fuck up and shoot them!"**

** "**_**Screw this!**_**" **Miller shouted. He turned around, and began to run as fast as he could in the opposite direction. He could hear them close behind, half-expecting a pair of mirrors that said "objects are closer than they appear" materializing on the sides of his helmet.

**"**_**Get your ass back here, Private!**_**"**

Something popped up on Miller's IFF. A friendly, by the looks of it. It wasn't registering the identity, but it was definitely _something_ out there.

Paying attention to that instead of where he was walking turned out to be a bad thing. He slammed right into something, and fell back flat on his ass in the mush all over the ground.

It took him a second to gain his bearings. They were still calling for him to come back- With a little more vigor now- but he didn't even care. He was _not_ going to die for them, _no sir._ He ripped his pistol off its holster, having dropped his other weapon, and aimed it in the direction he'd been running. He could see them, but it would take a minute.

A loud thud resonated behind him, causing him to spin back around.

Before him stood a black-clad figure, looming over him like some kind of demented thing from the beyond. It was registering as a friendly.

He blinked a couple times, and the image didn't change. It loomed over him, unmoving and uncaring it seemed. The shapes began to register in his mind finally, and he realized he was looking at _ODST _armor being worn by this figure.

**"**_**Oh my God! **_**Rommel! Almec! Which of you is it, I could fucking kiss you right now!"**

The figure stepped forward, and extended a hand, which he grabbed willingly, a smile on his face that stretched so far that one would have thought it would rip his face clean off. He began to pull himself to his feet. **"Boy am I glad to see you!"**

Then he felt the appendages coil around his arm.

**"What the fu-"**

The tentacled limb had him now, and began to apply pressure. It crushed his armor, and snapped his arm. Screaming in pain, the man began to fall back over- But the creature was _not_ allowing him to do this. Its second arm had the same tentacled appendages, but instead, they seemed to end in _blades_, rather than gripping parts. Growth all over the chest and back now seemed so painfully obvious that it was glaring.

The creature hefted Miller up, and reared back its clawed appendages.

**"No, dammit, no, no- **_**Grk!"**_

__The demon brought its blades right into his gut, and lifted him up even further. He could feel them _drilling through_ his stomach, and out through his back. He dry heaved inside his helmet, and blood was everywhere.

Tiring of the game, the creature ripped its claws back out of him, and threw him to the ground. It loomed over him a moment more, then brought its arm up for another blow.

The arm came back down, sending a crimson ribbon out from Miller's throat. He tried to beg, plead, scream for help, do _anything,_ but he couldn't. The most he was capable of was raising a weak hand in an attempt to block the next strike.

The creature slashed again. He felt a dull pain in his elbow before realizing nothing was attached to it anymore. He tried to scream, but it just game out as the sound of meat flapping in the wind as he gurgled his last pleas.

The beast lifted him once again, and only then did he notice the key to it all. The name on the chestplate was simple.

_ Campbell._

That was the only thing Miller's eyes could focus on, and the last thing he would ever see- Even as his head was separated from his body.


	23. Business as Usual

**/SCPO EDWARD ROMMEL/**

**/March 4, 2549 (MILITARY CALENDAR)/**

**/0250 Hours/**

**/OUTER_COLONY: NASIP/**

**/ONI BASE KOVCHEG PERIMETER, NEW POPLAVA CITY OUTSKIRTS/**

**/STATUS: RED/**

_Fucking space barnacles come off a derelict Super, wreck the whole city, travel across the planet fucking up everyone's day. Can't find any survivors, my squad's probably deader than cows gone through a slaughterhouse. What's left to do, then? Sit and rot? Keep going? Dunno what the point is, nothing left for me anywhere else. I can see Kovcheg, it's so fucking totaled that I probably ought to just shoot myself and get it over with._

_ Gotta be heavy resistance. Won't be able to pull off a full-on assault all on my own, will I? Probably not. Charge headlong into a position that's probably fortified and overrun with hostiles that absorb more lead than I can put out, kill all sonsabitches, try to find a ride off this shithole of a rock. It's a real dildo of an idea. Always was, even with a full squad of Helljumpers. Probably gonna get hammersmashed by a mangled bunch of corpses held together by some sort of Frankenstein-monster-magic._

_ Alternative's dying while not searching for a way out... Not much else to lose..._

_Fuck it, why not?_

Senior Chief Petty Officer Edward Wolffe Rommel was noticing that his luck was running dry quicker than he'd expected. As far as he was concerned everyone he ever knew was missing, dead, deader, or undead. Rather than cry himself a river to mourn them, he decided to honor their memories in a different matter.

He'd take out as many undead motherfuckers as he possibly could before he finally went out too.

Unfortunately for him, he was on about the same note with his supplies as he was with his luck: Almost completely out. He was running on his last couple magazines thanks to the fact that all of there seemed to be a sudden surge of mutant spuds in the area. They came in _massive_ groups of various types, carrying guns, blades, and organic materials used as armament, and now he was facing yet another huge group.

A guttural roar came from beside him, and he ducked. A clawed arm occupied the space where his head used to be for a brief second. The Senior slammed the palm of his hand into the ground, and brought his legs across in a sweeping kick that knocked the monster flat over, and in the same motion brought himself back up.

Another one came from directly ahead, unarmed and of the more fleshy variety. Rommel brought his boot down hard into the chest cavity of the one who had just been assaulting him, met with the gooey, crunchy, squealing sound that one would expect of crushing a giant bug. He raised his rifle at the new target, and pulsed the the trigger.

_Ratta-tat-tat- rat-tat- tattatat._

The thing's torso split in half diagonally, sending chunks of fleshy bits in all directions, and spraying Rommel with some kind of foul goo. The sound of tire tracks gave Rommel no pause to think about the possible health threats this could pose, and instead he leaped to the side.

Another pair of creatures came flying through the underbrush, flailing and whipping their arms around like demented retards. Short-lived ones at that, because the Warthog that came right after them pasted them all over the place. Blunt force trauma seemed to be more effective than bullets, given their squishy bodies.

Rommel fired a few bursts at the vehicle, his intention being to hit the driver. The lack of a gunner was promising, signifying in a way that their intelligence hadn't advanced quite _that_ far yet.

The vehicle didn't stop, but instead it seemed there was a loss of control. Dust, gravel, and guts got kicked up as the vehicle spun out, inevitably slamming itself into a tree, which toppled over from the sheer force. The Senior wasted no time in running at it, and jumped onto the hood of the vehicle. Tentacled appendages reached out from the driver's seat and flailed themselves at him.

He emptied five rounds into the parasite inside the creature, which stopped it dead.

There would be more. There wasn't much time for quick thinking, so he did the first thing that he could think of. He vaulted over the open space using the roll cage, and planted his feet in the bed of the Warthog. Thankfully, it was the Vulcan variant, rather than a Gauss cannon.

He gripped the LAAG tight, and spun it around to face the rest of the group that was running at him. Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty... He couldn't count them all. The rotary's barrels began to spin up, and the weapon began to fire.

The creatures fell one by one, slowly forming a carpet of bodies as they kept coming. It didn't matter as to whether or not one had fallen before them, or if they were charging straight into a weapon designed to punch extremely large holes through aircraft. Wave tactics was their by-the-book strategy, so they just clamored over their fallen brethren, only to receive the same fate.

_Come on, you fuckers. Show papa what you're made of._

Blood, guts, gore. Moans, screams, wails. Rommel was blind. Rommel was deaf. The only thing he saw was a wall crumbling before him. The only thing he heard was the sound of his kill count slowly rising. The only thing he _thought_ about was how many more were coming, and how much ammunition was in the drum.

When there was a break in the action for a moment, the Senior made another split-second decision. He jumped from the bed into the driver's seat, and hoisted the corpse of the infected Marine up and over the side of the vehicle, throwing it overboard. He sat down, and threw the Warthog into reverse. The audible thump-and-splat was more satisfying than it should have been.

He spun the vehicle around to face back up-hill, where the base was... What he saw instead was another wave heading at him.

_Well. Least I know why we didn't find so many in the city, fuckers were all pent up back here._

He grimaced, then shrugged. **"If you're going to hit a deer," **he muttered to himself, **"speed up." **He threw the vehicle into gear, and slammed on the gas petal.

_Ten. Seven. Five. Three. One._

Bits and pieces smashed into the windshield, coating it with green paste. Bits and pieces rolled over and into the vehicle, others just fell to the sides. There was an awful lot of noise, and it quickly turned into a bumpy ride. But he'd just plow right through them all if he had to, he didn't want to be a sitting duck at the very least. He _hated_ being in open spaces with wave after wave of hostiles being sent at him. Was like Jericho VII all over again.

He shuddered at the thought. These guys were all about wave tactics, but they weren't Grunts.

Back at Jericho, Rommel's squad ended up defending one of the larger bases planet-side. The whole thing had went to Hell. Covenant had managed to capture nearby airfields, which made it all the easier for them to land troops. Their favorite tactic was to land them just outside effective AA range, then march in enough footsoldiers and armor to chew through even the most plentiful of munition reserves. Before too long, supplies stopped coming, and the reinforcements _weren't _coming.

The thing about Grunts, it seemed, was that there was an infinite amount of them. They were dropped into combat by the thousands, and were expected to exhaust enough supplies for the next wave to roll right on through.

The base got held for the duration of the invasion, though. The elevation had probably dropped a hundred feet, and the only thing left was the underground section of the base, but they'd managed to hold it. It was only when the Covenant started glassing the planet that they ever abandoned the base.

The really fun part, though, was when they started boarding the ship that Rommel had been on. A particularly feisty Zealot had engaged Rommel in the ship's vehicle bay. He lacked a weapon that would do any damage to the golden-armored foe, so he tricked the Elite into slicing through a beam that held up a Warthog undergoing maintenance.

There wasn't a single Elite that Rommel had ever seen that could take the full force of an M12 LRV, a three and a half ton vehicle, and survive. When the Warthog came right down on the Elite's skull, the only thing Rommel could see was purple.

Unfortunately for him, he could barely see that. The Elite had managed to get one good swing in, right over Rommel's eye. That was the where the scar that trailed from his forehead to his chin came from. Convection and conduction were powerful things. The sword had cut right through his eye, destroying it instantly. The sheer heat radiated off it was enough to heavily damage his other eye.

Rommel now had prosthetic eyes. He'd put good money into getting ones that looked like the real thing.

He also had a non-functioning energy sword hilt that was once wielded by a Zealot in his rucksack. A trophy of sorts... Though Cole Protocol stated that it was strictly forbidden. Under penalty of imprisonment or death, in fact. He was careful to ensure that nobody ever found it when inspections rolled around.

Now, though, Jericho VII was over and done with, a floating ball of glass in the middle of space. He had to worry about how he was going to escape from _this_ planet. There were a hundred thousand freaks between him and whatever method it was, he was certain. If getting off the rock meant killing every last one of them, so be it. He'd either do it, or die trying.

He hoped it was the former, though.

Soon enough, the base was in sight. It had undergone some serious radical reconstruction, but it was still there. The main gate was noticeably missing, for some odd reason, but that wasn't so concerning. The more concerning factor was the fact that there were a pair of the more massive monsters guarding the entrance on the ground, with an envoy of smaller ones, all gun-toting, and the ones atop the wall that surrounded the base.

They all began to open fire.

Rommel watched as the whole front end of the vehicle began to get ripped away by projectile and plasma fire. The hood quickly deteriorated, the windshield shattered to pieces, and he was pretty sure that he was watching various vital internal components being blown to Hell flying out of it. He neither slowed, stopped, or changed his course. He just lowered his head, and let the inevitable come.

The Warthog barreled through the group. Again, gooey parts showered across the front end, though surprisingly less. _Maybe some of 'em jumped outta the way? _He couldn't help but wonder about it, but that was all he cared to do: Wonder. When the vehicle finally gave out, he was already within the confines of the base, and his next objective was in sight:

The closest door that led inside.

Wasting no time, the Senior Chief Petty Officer leaped from the vehicle, and made a mad dash for the ramp that led up to the main entrance. As a pair of formerly-Human freaks jumped out at him, he gunned them down with the MA2B as quickly as he could. Regardless of whatever jumped out, he'd have to eliminate it as quickly as possible. He sure couldn't afford to look behind him to see just how much time he had.

He slid to a quick halt when he finally reached the door, which, to his dismay, _did not open_ when he came to it. The keypad was exposed, however. He wasn't sure if it was locked or damaged, though. Glancing over his shoulder, he realized he had only a few seconds. He punched in his access code as quickly as he possibly could, and let the door slide open.

He jumped through the opening before it was even done, stripping a single grenade from his combat webbing. He slammed on the controls to close the door, and armed the grenade just in time to see the crew of undead creeps coming in close. He tossed it through the door as it closed, and was satisfied to hear the howls that seemed to signify death, or whatever the equivalent was.

The pounding on the door that followed was... Less than encouraging.

The foot of solid titanium that separated them from him, however, was.

With that having been done, Rommel took a moment to turn around and survey the inside of the building. He could hardly see worth a damn. The emergency lights were on, so everything had an eerie red glow. That really didn't make the lobby he was standing in seem any more friendly than the blood smeared across its walls, or the miscellaneous body parts strewn across the floor.

Low-light mode produced minimal results. The lighting was piss-poor for low-light or standard visions. Given between the two, though, low-light seemed the better choice. More thorough highlighting of hostiles than the standard VISR mode, which was definitely a plus. He was sick of not being able to see anything.

With a heavy sigh, the Senior continued forward. He wasn't sure entirely as to where he was going. The armory was on the way to the cryo bays, however. Maybe he'd find survivors locked up there. The cryo bay was near the vehicle depot, too- And the vehicle depot held one of the main access points for the hangar.

Sounded like a plan to him.


	24. Hell's Recycling

An hour's worth of travel sounded like a long time and a far distance, until one considered that they were inside a fairly large building. Then it just meant tedious hall-sweeping, corner-checking, and making sure that it was the right direction. That was much easier said than done when the building was a confusing labyrinth of hallways and rooms that all led to nowhere.

Rommel walked cautiously through the hallways, remaining low to the ground and with his gun to his shoulder. He took short, slow steps, to minimize any noise that he could potentially make. He was glad for the boots he wore- Nice and quiet, but still armored enough to take a hit, and heavy enough to stomp in any potential hostile's head, with enough applied force.

He'd had to use them to do just that plenty of times. Though he believed in efficiency, he was not above brutality. If the most effective way to take down a hostile was the most devastating, then so be it. There had been negative images in media reports following plenty of Counter-Insurgent missions Rommel had been on in an attempt to use it as propaganda against the UNSC.

The Senior always just sat back and grinned at his handiwork. Cut throats, smashed faces, mutilated body parts.

He _hated_ Innies. He would track them all down to the ends of the universe if he had to, and put a slug through all their heads. It wasn't that he was pro-UNSC, despite his occupation. It was just that the alternative was the Insurrection, which just didn't work for him. If he had to make a complete list of everything bad that had ever happened to him, most of them would have Insurgents as the cause.

If someone was against the UNSC, that was fine. The UNSC could burn for all he cared. As long as at the end of the day he was still alive, it didn't really matter who called themselves what. He didn't totally disagree with some Insurgent ideals, in fact- But their methods were unacceptable.

In his humble opinion, any kind of people that forced a man to hold his teenage daughter in his arms as she took her last breaths and spoke her last words before she bled to death were the kind of people that needed to get killed... Violently, to say the least.

But for now, there were no Insurgents to brutally slaughter. There weren't any Covenant, either. There were only these mutant spuds, who he couldn't manage to kill brutally because they were either already dead, or too damn hard to kill in any way other than complete annihilation.

As it was, it looked like the task of "complete annihilation" was already being fulfilled at the base. The halls were littered with parts that were fairly hard to identify. Even as Rommel looked down, he wasn't sure if he was standing over a thick forearm or a thin calf. The decomposing fingers nearby hinted at the former, however.

He shrugged, stepping over them and continuing forward.

There were many things that bothered him about the area. With so many body parts, there were no actual _bodies. _Surely they hadn't all been assimilated by these undead monsters, surely there had been _some_ that they deemed unfit for body-snatching, some too mutilated to be of any use? There was no way that _all_ of them were useful to them...

That left few alternatives. One of them was that the bodies were being hauled off to some undisclosed location. Another came to mind, but he didn't want to think about it too hard.

He stopped at the next corner, and slowly poked his head around. This next hallway was the same as the last: Long, narrow, and full of little bits. With a grimace, he rounded the corner, and began to walk down the hallway. Never once did he let the rifle come away from his shoulder, or the barrel stray from the ideal "center mass" height.

_Chink-bang. Chink-bang. Chink-bang. Chink-bang._

Rommel's heart leaped into his throat, and his finger almost pulled the trigger out of paranoia. He stopped dead in his tracks as the sound started up. It sounded like something sharp was being dragged against metal, then something heavy being dropped against it. Four times in quick succession, then it stopped.

He wasn't able to identify where it was coming from quickly enough.

He spun around quickly, and swept his rifle around the hallway that he had just come from. There was nothing there that hadn't been before, and he couldn't honestly say he noticed anything missing that had been there before. Rommel felt he was a man of nearly photographic memory, so he'd go along with what he felt to be true:

There was nothing in the hallway behind him.

With a sense of dread, the Senior turned back around, and continued to walk down the next hallway, though he walked with a _particularly_ cautious movement- He made it a point to not make a _sound. _If he could hear so much as the clicking of an ammunition pouch against his armored plates, then he'd be detected even quicker by whatever it was.

_Chink-bang. Chink-bang. Chink-bang. Chink-bang._

_ Chink-bang. Chink-bang. Chink-bang. Chink-bang._

Rommel stopped dead in his tracks. That time, whatever it was had moved twice as far, and twice as fast. And this time, he _knew_ he wasn't imagining it- It sounded like something bad. Like something he didn't want to see. And he knew where the noise had come from.

Despite his better judgment and sincere wish not to, he looked up.

There was nothing on the ceiling itself apart from the fluorescent lights, loudspeaker systems, and ventilation grates. If one didn't count the blood and guts on the ceiling, that was. Apart from that, it was entirely normal.

The thought struck him: The ventilation shafts were large enough to fit a person into easily.

There was another sound, like metal being torn open. Then there was a brief clattering, followed by a sound that was harder to identify. It was like something wet and sloppy being pulled apart.

Again, despite his sincerest wishes not to, he spun around.

There, no more than a feet feet away from his face, hung what was easily the most hideous creature he'd seen all day. It was at about eye-level with him, but it was hanging out from one of the ceiling's ventilation shaft's grates. The "head" that was staring right at him looked to have been an Elite's at one point in time, but the fact that it was split in half to make a larger "mouth" was... Well, not normal.

The body was long, and segmented. Upon closer inspection, each segment was actually the torso of another person or alien, organized in a fashion so that the larger ones were closer to the "head," while the smaller ones were further back. Each torso retained its arms, but they all ended in bladed appendages, distinctively made of bone.

Rommel couldn't help but notice the fact that these torsos were _also_ still wearing their armor, but held together by biomass.

It was like an incredibly large, armored centipede.

The thing let out a low moan, then slashed at him with the closest two appendages. Only by a miracle did he manage to step back in time to avoid being bisected at the shoulder and waist, whereupon he directed his weapon's barrel at the terrifying beast's "mouth" as it began to snap wildly at him.

**"**_**Die,**_** you ugly **_**piece of shit!**_**" **he shouted, and immediately began to open fire. .390 caliber rounds were a powerful thing, and Rommel had found that Shredder rounds were even better. When they impacted a target, they shattered apart, leaving an even more devastating effect on organic materials.

As such, the "mouth" of the creature was effectively ripped in half.

The creature let out an ear-piercing shriek, and began to attempt inching its way back up into the grate it had come from. **"**_**Don't you fucking run from me!**_**" **Rommel shouted at it,and took aim at one of the less armored "joints" that was nearer the end of the creature that was backing into the grate. He didn't wait a second to start firing, rapidly punching holes through the creature's unarmored flesh at a high rate.

The effect was the intended one: The biomass fell apart, and the creature fell from the ceiling, and hit the floor hard. The shrill noises it made were _deafening, _but Rommel didn't let up. He kept firing at the front of the thing, with the intention of killing the "head."

After a moment, the part in the vent fell to the ground, too- And then Rommel made the terrifying discovery that it was _still moving_.

After catching a brief glimpse of the sensory stalks on the underside of the thing, Rommel realized what was going on. Each segment of the creature was _self-aware,_ and capable of functioning _separately_ from the rest of the body.

That said, he now knew that he had made a terrible mistake as the two halves of the creature came streaming toward him.

He immediately began backpedaling, and continued firing at the two, in hopes that his shots would do something. After a moment of that, his weapon clicked dry. He ejected the spent magazine, and swapped it out for a fresh one as quickly as he could. At the same time, the truth became evident... Just _shooting_ at it wasn't helping.

He didn't have a lot of options.

He decided to go with the only option other option he could think of off-hand: He pulled an M9 fragmentation grenade from his combat webbing, and armed it as quickly as he could. He ran forward at the thing, and took a flying leap over it. As he did, he let go of the grenade so that it would drop right where the two halves were sitting.

He didn't look back to see what had happened. He was counting on the fact that given that the thing had a technical "head," it wouldn't be able to just go in full reverse, but would have to take a moment to turn around. He took cover around the corner, just in time.

There was a loud boom, followed by a deafening shriek as shrapnel and guts came flying down the hallway.

Rommel spun around the corner, and found that the detached half of the thing was completely demolished. The other majority of it, however, had been split into two other pieces. Both of them appeared heavily mangled, with not enough intact limbs to drag them properly- And some segments not responding at all.

He'd killed it mostly, then.

The creature attempted to drag itself toward him, though, even in its death throes. But it was slow, and clumsy. **"Just **_**die**_**..."** He opened up again on the parts, alternating between the two. Finally, it stopped trying, and seemed to just die.

Rommel shook his head slowly, lowering the rifle, but keeping it aimed at the monstrosity. **"Answers my question as to where the damn **_**bodies**_** went to..."** he commented, noticing that the majority of the body was Human torsos. Even some of the limbs were mismatched, made of parts that were decidedly _not_ its original bits and pieces.

The Senior sighed, and kept moving forward. He kept an eye toward the ceiling this time as well, however- If he came across another one of those, he wasn't sure what he'd do. He only had one more grenade, and though he'd been saving them so far, he seemed to be getting deep into what was freak territory.

As he came to the next set of doors, he hesitated. "Mess Hall" was what the door promised.

Somehow, he had a feeling that this term would be taken quite literally.

He lifted up an armored boot, and kicked the door open.

Dozens of undead creeps all turned toward the doorway, roaring in rage at their new, living intruder, who had gotten past the guard dog from Hell. Rommel checked his ammo counter, and raised his rifle. **"It **_**never**_** ends!"**


	25. Dismemberment

The creatures came screaming at him from all about the room, a chorus of wails and shrieks that produced that same eerie, ear-splitting sound that always sent a shiver up Rommel's spine.

There was no amount of prior experience with these things that anyone could have that _wouldn't_ scare someone shitless when they heard that. Rommel had been in the UNSC some sixty years, and he _still_ hadn't heard anything that had just quite that effect on him... And it worked every single time.

Scared shitless or not, however, Rommel sighted in with the rifle on the first one that came within his line of sight, and squeezed off a few rounds.

He really wished there seemed to be some kind of... _Technique_ to killing these things. If their legs came off, they used their arms to keep dragging themselves forward. If their arms came off, they'd use whatever else they had to attack. If they were completely immobilized and disarmed, the parasite abandoned the body to seek another host. But without the parasite, the body stopped.

Sometimes the parasite was exposed, sometimes it wasn't. It depended on the degree of the mutation. Time? Individual factors? Fuck if he knew, fuck if he cared. If the parasite was exposed, shooting it was the best option. If not, tearing through flesh with .390 Shredder rounds wasn't hard. Shredders worked better on the monsters anyhow- Rounds shattered on impact, tearing up organics like tissue paper.

If they had armor, it was more being hopeful that one could punch through it and the parasite quickly enough to ground it, or just to do enough damage to cause the host to be unusable.

_Why can't they just be stupid, shambling zombies? Why'd they have to be the damn virus-spawned Superfreaks instead of the old fashioned Living Dead?_

In the end, it didn't really matter what they were, or how he dispatched them. As long as he was still standing and they weren't, he didn't _care._ He'd been brought up to ask questions like how and why, but... When it came to the dead reanimated, there just wasn't time for questions. No sense in asking them anyhow, getting an answer out of a corpse was pretty hard.

_Didn't they talk earlier? Findish talked. Was it a fluke? A warning by him?_

Doubtful. It threatened their destruction, told them to submit, some bullshit like that. Which was fine- He was through talking anyhow.

A trio of non-Humans burst through a door somewhere to Rommel's right and joined the fray. They were too far yet to be of _great_ concern to him, but he couldn't help but notice they weren't wearing armor... No, they were wearing _civilian_ clothing. That proved it, then. There'd been an attempt to round up the civvies, but obviously things hadn't gone as planned.

He swung his rifle to one that _was_ wearing armor, closing in on him quickly. A Marine at one point, judging by the coloration... But not anymore. Now it was just another obstacle. Rommel aimed for its inner thigh, and pulsed the trigger. The not-Marine's femoral came away, and the thing hit the ground hard. It scrambled onto its hands, and reoriented itself so that the helmet blocked a shot straight down the neck.

He pulled the trigger anyhow.

The thing came at him rapidly, and somehow vaulted itself into the air at him, screaming in rage as it did. As its helmet finally took enough rounds to crack it in half, its _head_ split open in half- And revealed _teeth, _which started snapping open and shut. It was like a demented Venus Flytrap with _legs._

Rommel slammed his rifle forward with both hands, horizontally, and was very nearly knocked on his ass as the thing hit the rifle head on- And wrapped its jaws around it. He brought his knee up into its gut, but all that succeeded in doing was pissing it off as it began to thrash at him with its claw-like appendages, battering and beating him.

Suddenly, the thing twisted its body, and wrenched the MA2B from his hands, flinging it across the room. In retaliation, he did the first thing he could think of: He ripped his M6 from its place on his thigh, and aimed square with the "mouth" that had been formed from its head so that the rounds would tear straight down its body and out through its ass, and pulled the trigger.

And again. And again. And again.

The body gave a final screech before falling flat. Rommel looked up, and did a mental count. He counted _five_ remaining in total. Three were unarmored, one was armored, and the last was armored, but held together by what he could only amount to being sheer power of will.

He raised his sidearm, and aimed it at the nearest that wasn't armored- Which also happened to have its tentacles curled around what he was fairly certain was an Army variant assault rifle. MA3 model of some kind. Piece of shit gun, he was glad to see it go when they first rolled out the line of MA5s. It still used 7.62 NATO, but fired with all the accuracy of pissing in the wind.

Still, at such close proximity, it was about as good as a damn LAAG.

The ghoul opened up on him with the weapon, causing him to dart off to the side as quickly as he could. He made a bee-line for a table to hide behind, and the instant he reached it, overturned the thing so that the broad side would be faced toward the thing. It didn't let up firing the whole time, seemingly as a testament to its intelligence, until finally the thing's magazine seemed to have finally clicked dry.

Rommel stood up, and lined up a shot with its shoulder. He pulled the trigger, and was pleased to see the beast's arm come off in a pulpy mess. It screeched its protest loud enough to nearly make his ears bleed- Dampeners or not- and launched itself at him, along with its armored and nearly-falling-apart comrades. In a desperate move, he curled his fingers around the side of the table that he had been hiding behind, and clutched it tight in his grip... Then flung it at the one he'd just been firing on.

The table and monster met each other in mid-air, and both of them clattered to the ground in a heap, leaving the thing to spiral off somewhere out of sight for the time being. The armored one was the first thing to reach him, swinging wide with a set of clawed tentacles. Rommel ducked low, and swept a leg under its feet, causing it to hit the ground hard on its front. He planted a boot firmly in the small of its back, and took aim on the next creature.

The fiend soared through the air, and raised a hand with the intent to bring it down on him. He pulled the trigger twice, the first round tearing off an arm, the second round impacting with the section that held its torso together. Its torso ripped apart, and as the parasite was revealed, Rommel fired a third shot, which blew it apart in midair.

He glanced at the thing under his foot, and fired a pair of complementary shots into its mid-section. It stopped squirming.

The last two came at him without much tactic to it, so it seemed. He took a step back, firing two shots into the first, dropping it without issue. When he sighted in on the second one, he pulled the trigger twice again. The first shot tore off an arm. He was finally getting used to this tactic, a thought that scared him more than anything else in the entire damn universe at that point. But the second produced a sound that scared him more than that thought:

_Click._

A soldier's worst nightmare was that sound when something was running at them.

The beast screamed loudly at him as it came forward. He wasn't entirely sure of _what_ to do, so he just did the first thing that came to mind, the first thing that made sense for a man like himself. He spun the pistol in his hand so that he was grasping the barrel instead of the grip, and clubbed the son of a bitch as hard as he could. Green slime was sprayed across his visor instantly.

The monster was instantly stopped in its tracks as it hit the ground hard. Without missing a beat, Rommel brought up his foot, and brought it down hard. This got a Hellion scream from the beast, and caused it to try lashing out at him. He caught its arm with his free hand, and applied pressure with his foot directly into the chest cavity. There was a brief high-pitched shriek, shortly before an audible squelching noise. The arm went slack.

Rommel stood there for a moment, hyperventilating, trying to catch his breath. His heart hammered louder than any artillery, having worked its way all the way into his skull from the feel of it. His eyes surveyed the room for a moment... And that was when he realized he'd made the mistake of holding still.

Only in his peripheral vision did he see the combat form that he'd forgotten he'd hit with the table, come anew to tear him asunder. The attack didn't _hurt_. But it _did_ tear through his right shoulder pauldron, and ripped it right off. It stung more than a bit, tore through his jumpsuit, cut him deep, down into the muscle... But adrenaline wasn't going to let it slow him down.

He spun around, and brought his head forward into the offending hostile, the dome of his helmet meeting it with a wet thump. It stumbled back, and gave him the opportunity he needed. He reached for his knife, drew it, and plunged it into the exposed parasite before it could even react. No sound, no flailing. There were a couple brief twitches that might have been meant to be attacks, but they didn't come. The thing just slumped to the floor, finally dead.

He didn't stand around waiting this time. He immediately sheathed his knife, and stepped away from his pile of corpses. His arm was bleeding profusely, but he just didn't have time to care about it. He grinned._ Ain't got time to bleed. _He ejected the spent magazine from the pistol, and flung it aside. Normally the procedure was to put them back into their pouches, _not_ just get rid of them as so many Hollywood playwrights seemed to think, but they were just dead weight, and he was heading to the armory anyhow.

He slid a new magazine into the weapon, keeping an eye out for anything that moved. Hell, he kept an eye on the things that _didn't_ move, too. He wasn't going to get blindsided again.

As he moved for the next door, he could see his MA2B out of the corner of his eye. At first, he was tempted to go after it. The MA2B was an amazing weapon, after all. On second glance, however, he realized how futile it would be. The weapon was bent, warped, and in pieces. He instantly felt disappointed and frustrated, knowing that he'd probably needed it, and that he just took one step closer to destruction.

He briefly considered the fact that it could've easily been his arm, or leg, or torso, or head instead of his rifle. If he'd been even a second slower...

He decided it would be better if he didn't think about it too hard. He'd have plenty of time to reminisce on what could have been, what should have been, how differently things could have gone once he was off this damned rock. _If _he got off this rock.

The next fifteen minutes passed by without much problem, and he arrived at the armory without issue. The fact that heaps of decaying bodies surrounded it didn't exactly do much to boost his confidence, however. Neither did the fact that the walls were gradually more coated in this... _Biomass_ crap the further he progressed. Every time he saw a body in it, he gave it a wide birth and a .50 SAP-HE round to the chest.

He didn't know if one of them was going to attack him or not, but he remembered the underground area all too damn well.

The door was locked, but a quick punch of a few digits solved that problem. He stepped inside, and conducted a brief sweep of each aisle. When he was positive that nothing else was in the room except dust motes, he was content to seal the door behind him.

He popped the seals on his helmet, and jammed his thumbs under the jawline of it. He didn't waste a moment in pulling it off and slinging it to the side. He braced himself against the wall, and took in a few deep breaths. The air smelled of decay, and a sour, repugnant odor that he couldn't identify. The smell of death he could take. Blood, guts, gore, that wasn't anything new to him. But this _new_ smell was... Overpowering.

He almost upchucked on the spot. Likewise, he was tempted to put his helmet back on.

He did neither, instead opting to simply close his eyes and take in a deep breath of the crap. No sense running from it, the best way to get used to something was to face it head on, far as he was concerned. Still, it was difficult _not_ to heave.

It wasn't just the smell, though. His nerves were grating on him.

In his whole life, there'd only been a few instances where his unit had been _totally_ wiped out. Even then, usually _his_ men made it out alive. He tried to make damn sure that no matter what happened, his people made it out alive. Only now and again did he ever have someone get killed under his command. One or two he could deal with. He didn't like it, but he could manage.

But only _once_ did he have _everyone_ under his command get killed. That was a long, long time ago. He hadn't had any other choice, the only other alternative was the destruction of an enter _city. _Few for the many. But they weren't close to him, not people he personally knew for the most part.

_Never_ had he had people who were his _friends_ die under his command...

_And all in one day...?_

He felt his hands begin to shake, and a great tremor began to overtake his body. His grip became weak, and his legs threatened to give out from under him.

He took in another deep breath, and steeled himself against it. He refused. He couldn't break down, not now. He'd overcome worse things in the past. Far worse things. Maybe not physically, but mentally. In terms of combat, no, he'd never faced anything so terrible in his life. But he'd taken far, far worse hits to his psyche.

He forced himself to stop shaking, and opened his eyes. Only now, with all the damned shaking, did his bicep begin to start feeling like it was: Total shit.

He grit his teeth, and glanced at the arm. His shoulder pauldron and outer bicep plate had been ripped clean off, but the physical ring that surrounded it was still intact. Unless one counted the massive gash through it, but that was what it was. Blood poured through the open wound, which he had no doubt in his mind reached all the way down to the muscle. However, he had no time to fix it.

Not when escape might be so near.

He sighed, and held up his pistol for a moment. It was an M6B, an "Officer's model" pistol. Rarely seen outside law enforcement anymore, but they were favorable to some of the later M6 models in that they had a much more comfortable grip. Rather than the traditional chrome finish, it had a black oxide finish. The upper assembly, however, had been replaced with that of an M6C/SOCOM's, so that the barrel included the integrated silencer and scope.

He remembered the exact day he'd received it, too. The day he'd come home from OCS. It was a gift. He loosened his grip on it a little bit, and wiped the grime from the grip. Etched into it was _"Show 'em who's boss. – Maddie" _He grinned at it for a moment, then puckered his lips and gave the gun a comically loud, smacking kiss. He immediately wished he hadn't, given the grime.

He wasn't sure who he was putting on the act for, but he would anyway.

He considered for a moment how easy it would be just to put the thing to the side of his head, pull the trigger, and call it a life. Just to do it and get it over with and face whatever charges awaited him wherever he was going- Heaven, Hell, nowhere, anywhere, a new body, a new form, whatever. He didn't care. But he made a promise long ago to a lot of people he cared about that he'd tough it through for as long as he could.

He'd have to live through this, just as he did through everything else. Not because he _wanted_ to anymore, but because he _needed_ to. Because he _had_ to. Because he _promised_ to. If death took him, that was fine- But it couldn't be by his hand.

He lowered the gun, and set his sights on the racks behind him. He immediately began to take inventory, replacing spent grenades, spent magazines, throwing replacements into his rucksack for those he'd spent. He especially stocked up on Shredder rounds.

Lastly, he picked up a new MA2B. He inserted a magazine and chambered a round. He set to work on a few slight modifications to the weapon to make it a bit more... _Accustomed _to his tastes. He hadn't bothered with the one he'd had before, but now that he knew what he was up against, he felt the need to make a few changes. They'd be quick, they'd only take a couple minutes.

He loved his sidearm, this was fact. It had served him for longer than anything else had, certainly. It was reliable, adaptable, powerful, and accurate. But sometimes, there was nothing quite like a fully automatic weapon that fired rounds designed to tear apart fleshy things like it was nobody's business at hundreds of rounds per minute, with massive magazine sizes to boot.

Even better when the rifle had a grenade launcher stuck to the end of it.


	26. Crushed Hopes

Having overcome a seemingly infinite number of obstacles, hardships, and otherwise indisputably horrific events, Rommel felt as though he may have very well been on the home stretch. He felt it in his gut, and that was a feeling that was rarely ever wrong. Even now, he finally felt as though there may have been some chance, however small, that he would somehow manage to get off this planet.

His squad was dead. He didn't want to believe it, but he'd accept that and move on with his life. Dominic Almec, his best friend for more years than he could remember, was dead. The entire colony of Nasip was dead, dying, or zombified in some far-off place that he'd never manage to imagine, let alone locate, and there wasn't even a chance he could manage to save them in time.

This world was burning, and every moment he stayed was a moment longer that he risked burning with it. These... _Things_ just consumed everything, and turned it against whatever it pleased. Before, he'd had theories on what they were, why they were here, if they were intelligent, if there was a chance they could be saved. As he grew closer to the hangar bay, however, he no longer had an interest in any of these things: He just wanted to be gone.

This planet could burn without him.

He'd leave. He'd follow the Cole Protocol, make random jumps until he got to a nearby Human colony. He supposed the closest one would probably be Victus or Kleinsaw. He hadn't familiarized himself much on the neighboring planets or systems. All he knew was that they were neither Reach, nor Earth, nor Resolnare. Probably Insurgent-infested worlds that would've been next in his backwater-world rotation for having broken that Colonel's jaw.

He couldn't remember the man's name anymore, all he knew was that he sat on a fairly low rung on his shit-list's ladder, but squarely upon it. He'd remember his face if he saw it. He'd be sure to break more than his jaw if he ever saw it again, since it was by _his_ word that he'd been sitting in these Outer Rim worlds for close enough to five years... By _his_ word that Rommel had ended up on Nasip, in the end, and his squad was dead, and he was playing the star in Dante's Inferno.

God, he wished he could remember that man's name. Probably wouldn't even be a Colonel anymore. Maybe promoted. Maybe dead. _Hopefully_ dead. No, hopefully _not_ dead, that way Rommel could kill the man himself. Given the opportunity, he'd gladly do some radical reconstruction of the man's face, preferably with a .50 round or two.

Regardless of the case, Rommel's fun-filled adventures took him where he needed to go without much more concern. He gunned down what he had to, and avoided what he could manage to. In the armory, he'd picked up a new MA2B and slapped his more favorable additions onto it. He'd also replenished his ammo. However, it didn't seem to matter _what_ kinds of goodies were used on these things, they just kept coming.

So, he'd reserve his ammunition for when he'd need it. He had no doubt that his adventure wasn't over, regardless of how close he came to his goal. A sense of impending victory did not mean that a sense of getting fucked over at a point in the decidedly near future was no longer an option. Both seemed prominent in his mind, and he trusted his senses well enough to put two and two together: Maybe he'd get his ride out, but it would probably be surrounded by ghosts, ghouls, beasties, and baddies who seemed to realize that some poor sap would come looking for it.

Necromorphic bag of dicks, that's what they were. At least one of them would stow itself away in the cargo hold, waiting for him to break atmosphere. Then, when he _finally_ thought he'd made it out, it would creep up, make him shit himself, then promptly consume his flesh, bones, and consciousness, then fly out to some other planet to infest it, too.

He knew the drill. He'd watched enough horror movies to figure this out.

In the meantime, he now stood before the door to the cryo-bay that he'd woken up in that very morning. The panel that opened the door appeared to have been shot to the point of non-functionality, which normally would have been a problem. What made this particular instance different, however, was the fact that the doorway was wide open. Both of the reinforced metallic doors faced inward.

These doors, like many others, only ever opened by parting to the sides, into the wall.

Beyond the doorway, many of the pods stood open. Ones that weren't were still online, with each pod having a back-up power supply in the event of failure of the main generator or general emergency. However, those that _weren't _open had smashed glass, with generous amounts of blood staining the insides and outsides. Here and there, a victim was still inside the pod, visibly contorted into a figure of agony.

It was something that was definitely _not_ instinct that told him that something big and terrifying that had brought these doors wide open, but instead, the magic of common sense. Through this same power, he decided that he didn't need to concern himself with survivors in this room. If anything, a .390 Caliber aspirin applied directly to the forehead would be the most he could prescribe.

He lingered at the doorway for a moment, and made the decision _not_ to make his way into the room. Survivors would likely be non-existent, and any who might have been present were likely to be reduced to nothing more than PTSD cases that would be detrimental to his own survival. It was a grim outlook, and by no means a choice he'd make lightly, but the way he looked at it was simple: Anyone he found was more likely to get him killed than help him.

For the same reason, he felt his gut knot up again.

He missed his squad.

He turned from the door, and reluctantly pressed onward. These things were thorough. He wouldn't find anyone alive in there anyhow- And if they were, MediGel could only cure so much. On top of that, he couldn't afford to waste any time. Every second he wasted was another he spent on this dead rock. He needed to get out of here, get help from the-

He stopped in his tracks. He bit his lower lip at the thought. Hard enough to draw blood.

Could he even _trust_ the UNSC, in this case? Or would he just be damning more men and women to their untimely, horrid, gruesome deaths? The safest route would be cleansing through nuclear fire. The planet wasn't large, but it'd take an obscene amount of bombs to take it out fully. Those were supplies that he doubted the UNSC would just spend willingly to carpet bomb a planet that may or may not have been salvageable.

For that matter, would they even _believe_ him? He was definitely a decorated soldier, but Officers hated him. Terribly. There were some gunning hard for him to get worse than just a demotion when the time came. They might just assume that he had gone crazy- He had to admit, saying that an entire colony had been turned into a shambling horde _did_ sound pretty fucking insane- and assume the Covenant had destroyed the colony, and leave it alone. He, in the meantime, would rot in some asylum, he _himself_ being treated as a PTSD case.

In the worst-case scenario, they'd check it out, nuke the planet, and throw him in the looney-bin anyway to _cover the whole thing up._ The general public already was panicked enough knowing there were genocidal aliens out in space looking to blow them up. They didn't need to get driven into a further state of panic by being told that there were also alien space barnacles somewhere out in space just waiting to land on their planets and turn them into monsters. They couldn't leave the planet alone, but they wouldn't just let him go, either.

He wasn't sure which scenario was the worst.

He wasn't sure which fact was worse, either- That if he told them, he'd be screwed, but if he _didn't_ tell them, _everyone_ was screwed.

He started walking again. He'd have plenty of time to figure out this matter. It desperately needed to be decided, but in the end, it would only matter if he managed to survive in the first place. Otherwise, there'd be no warning for anyone, no choice to be made, and these bastards would thrive. Eventually, _they'd_ find a way off-world, with their new army ready to go, and kill everyone.

He refused to let that happen. For the sake of _everyone,_ he _needed_ to live now.

Suddenly, his line of thought was broken.

_ Rat-tat-tatta-tat-tat._

It sounded distant, but not so far as to be impossible to get to in time. It sounded like it was just around the corner, though he knew that was the design playing tricks on him. It could've been coming from anywhere, any angle, but... It _had_ to be close. Close enough for him to get there and figure out who the fuck was shooting who.

He made sure that his weapon's safety was off, just in case he came across something- Though he had it on semi-automatic, since he was going to be _running_ and didn't want to have his gun go off and empty its magazine into a damn wall after pulling the trigger by accident- and broke into a full sprint through the halls of the base.

One hall ended in a corner that led into another hall, and another, and another, and so on. Kovcheg was a bloody labyrinth, and there seemed to be _so many halls_ for how little _doors_ there were in these halls. He couldn't imagine what the purpose of it could possibly be, couldn't fathom _why_ there was such an impracticality in its design, unless it was just to serve as a way to keep invaders walking around in circles.

Eventually, the halls came to an end, and a doorway that should've held a door but didn't finally opened up into the motor pool. The gunfire was louder here than it had ever been.

_"On your right, on your right!"_

_ "I see- Shit, what the fuck is that?"_

_ "Fire! Fire the rockets!"_

_ "Firing!"_

The ground shook slightly under Rommel's feet as the nearby but far away explosion hit something, and at the same that inhuman wail kicked up again. Maybe it killed it, maybe it didn't. It didn't really matter. All that mattered was that Rommel got there as quickly as possible, because it sounded like whoever was out there was in _deep_ shit.

He sprinted across the catwalks above the motor pool, and as he looked down, he could see several smashed and overturned vehicles blocking the ground... And _more _of the monsters down below, jumping over the vehicles, heading in the same direction that he was. As he reached the end of the catwalk, where it branched off to two ramps that led down to the main level, he brought himself to an abrupt halt, and brought his weapon to bear.

There seemed to be a trend at Kovcheg where all the doors had been demolished by some force or another. Here, a particularly _massive_ blast door was at the end of the track. It was supposedly capable of withstanding a plasma torpedo bombardment. Or so its designers said. The fact that it was smashed _inward,_ its metal twisted and warped, the locks _broken, _did _not_ inspire confidence in that statement.

Somewhere outside was where the gunfire was coming from. He could hear them shouting, barely, but they were there.

A dozen or so of the monsters came down the track toward the massive opening, from underneath him. The Senior shifted his grip on the MA2B, wrapping his finger around the M301's trigger, bracing the rifle against his shoulder. He waited until they moved into his sights, when they were most tightly clustered, and pulled the trigger.

The weapon bucked hard against his shoulder. The grenade propelled itself through the air, and just as several of them looked up to investigate the noise's source, it made contact. Blood, guts, body parts, mystery goop, and concrete all were thrown up into the air in a smoky, dusty mess. He immediately reached down to pull a new grenade out of his combat webbing. He found another forty millimeter, and jammed it hard into the M301's tube.

The smoke cleared, and he saw that he'd reduced half of them to a pulpy mess. The six remaining were all focused on him. All of them were Human. Two of them had been ripped clean in half, with one of them only having one arm left. The other four were either intact, or missing an arm or a leg.

A quick burst of fire flew past Rommel's head, and he took a moment to drop down behind the thin strip of metal that served as his new cover. He toggled his own weapon to burst-fire- More effective at his range. More accurate, less of a waste of precious ammunition. More fire was sent in his direction, and he took a moment to identify which direction it was coming from.

He stood up, and aimed for the one he'd correctly identified as holding the burst-fire weapon. A BR55, the original model. He pulled the trigger, and sent a trio of bullets down-range. He'd packed up all but two magazines' worth of shredder rounds. They were much more effective against these things, since they fragmented on impact and tore up soft targets.

These things seemed to be more liquid than anything. He wasn't sure if they had muscle, or tendons, or ligaments. He was damn sure that they had some kind of bone, though they didn't seem to need it. Some of them he'd shot had rib cages, spines, other things. Others didn't. It seemed to vary from individual to individual, or maybe it depended on how far along in the transformation process they were.

Or maybe he just needed to stop trying to figure it out and just _shoot them._

The first barrage tore through the rifle-wielder's chest at a favorable angle. The arm wielding the rifle fell to the ground, leaving it with nothing to fight back with before the second burst split the rest of its torso in half, and at the same time, presumably killed the parasite. With nothing left to keep the body whole, it the lower half staggered backward and hit the ground as the body fell apart.

One of the ones he'd halved took a shot at him. A single shot. A pistol. He returned fire with a volley, which caused the thing to just slump over and die. The other three that could manage to move came at him in a frenzy, but a few well-placed shots effectively ended them, especially in their already heavily-damaged states. They each hit the ground in their individual piles of garbage.

The moment he'd dropped the last one that could move effectively, he made his way down the ramp. The last one that he'd halved only had a single arm. It inched its way toward him, making all sorts of growling, gurgling, disgusting noises. Finally, it stopped moving forward. Instead, its chest began to move. After a brief crackling sound, the parasite exited the body, and began to make its way toward him.

He didn't shoot it. Instead, he brought up his boot, and brought it down hard. He twisted his foot back and forth. There was a brief squeak, and then a crunching, popping sound- It was like killing a rat. Green leaked out from under his boot. He wasn't worried about it being alive. A solid three hundred pounds' worth of ODST had just brought its foot down on it. It was dead.

The sound of gunfire reminded him that he wasn't done yet.

He broke out into his full sprint again, and found that the opening led to where he expected it to: The airfield. From here, accessing the hangar would be easy. He stood on the overlook that also served as a path for vehicles from the hangar bay to either take to get outside the base, down to the airfield itself, or to head along to get to the hangar bay.

From his current position, he could see that one of the underground landing pads had been opened up, and the platform was being raised to the surface. On it stood several figures- Marines, Army, Navy, _something._ And they were surrounded on every side by all sorts of the monsters, including a few he himself had _never_ seen.

The most concerning, to him, was the fact that there were several of them that were hovering high above the ground. They looked like giant sacs, maybe like Covenant Engineers, and they kept spewing out something from time to time that seemed to explode in a gooey mess. He had no idea what the fuck they were, nor did it matter- He knew that they needed to be dead, because the _entire city _was converging on their position.

He suspected that what they ultimately wanted was the other thing on the platform: The Pelican transport. It was hardly worth the time during a battle to bring them in, they were shot down more often than they were successful. In this case, though... A Pelican was capable of operating in space. Not effectively, but it was possible. Something like a Longsword would be more preferable, but depending on how many there were down there...

If he had to guess, the Pelican was probably still warming up. They hardly ever got used here, with most scenarios where transporting a squad was necessary involving Falcons or occasionally Hornets, since they were substantially cheaper to manufacture.

Its backside faced the incoming swarms. It had a ceiling-mounted M247 that was being put to damn good use, though their efforts would be in vain if they didn't lift off soon.

Rommel _needed_ to be on that transport.

He kept moving down the track at full speed, taking shots at the airborne units from time to time. They were the main concern, since they would be able to track the Pelican, assuming they could move fast enough. At the very least, they'd bomb it to Hell before it managed to take off, which was his greatest concern. Fact of the matter was, they were expendable. That vehicle, on the other hand, was not.

_"There's too many! We're not gonna make it!"_

_ "More inbound from the front!"_

_"Sergeant, is that bird ready yet? We gotta go!"_

The voice sounded familiar. Who did it remind him of?

He stopped at the top of the ramp that would lead him down to it, and began firing at the zombies- He really wanted something else to call them by, but that's all he could think up- that were closest to him. He'd make his way down to that fucking thing. He'd be on that bird. He _would_ go home.

_**"Captain, there's something on the ramp shooting them, too!"**_

_**"I don't give a damn about their friendly fire, we need to get the fuck out of here!"**_

Rommel paused, his eyes narrowing as he thought about it. _Captain... Captain Lager?_

So they'd made it after all.

_**"Hey!"**_Rommel shouted over the external audio. **"Friendly coming in on your left! Wait up!"** Unfortunately, he'd alerted the other hostiles to his presence, too. Some of them started diverting from the Pelican to him, with the intent to kill. They'd just go down disappointed, then.

He switched to the M301, and blew up a larger cluster of them. He didn't even bother reloading, but instead, began running down the ramp toward the aircraft. He _would_ be on it, no matter the cost. He didn't care if he was torn in half in the process- He'd be _on that ship._

_**"Bird's ready for dust-off! Let's go!"**_

_**"ODST's coming in from the left!" **_someone called out.

_**"Leave him, there's no time!"**_

__Rommel could see everyone getting into the Pelican, gunfire still blazing from its inside.

_**"Wait, dammit, wait!"**_ Rommel called out. _**"Don't you fucking leave without me! DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING LEAVE WITHOUT ME!"**_He didn't even bother aiming the rifle anymore. He toggled it to fully automatic, and just kept firing in an attempt to give himself some covering fire. To little avail. He didn't realize just how many there were.

The hatch of the Pelican closed, and the vehicle's landing gear began to retract. It slowly began to hover upward into the air. _**"NO!"**_ Rommel shouted, breaking out into full sprint again. _I will NOT be left here. I REFUSE! _

The bird kept going higher and higher, then began to move forward at a pace. _**"No, no, NO, NO!"**_ The magazine on the rifle clicked dry. He slung it over his shoulder to attach it to the magnetic strips, with no time left on the clock. _**"COME BACK! I'M RIGHT HERE YOU IGNORANT FUCKS!"**_

__The Pelican began to slow, and turn around. He could see its forward autocannon spinning up, and began to sweep the area. It fired on the monsters behind him with the main gun, mowing them down in droves. He heard the missile pods launching the ANVIL-II ASMs, killing even larger numbers.

He didn't want to know how many were behind him if they were resorting to this desperation.

Suddenly, the landing pad erupted from the ground, several fragments of it smashing into the airborne Pelican. It rocked hard to the side, and the autocannons continued firing. As a result, Rommel was forced to continue running just to avoid being shot on accident. They finally stopped after a moment, but what happened next was _unthinkable._

A column of organic material shot out from the opening where the landing pad used to be for what had to be at _least_ a mile in the air, higher than the Pelican itself, and slowly came down. The Pelican attempted to move out of the way, but there was nothing that could be done.

The column was no column at all. It was a massive _tentacle, _come from the very pits of Hell to destroy them. It wrapped itself around the Pelican, which struggled against it for only a moment. The tentacle curled tighter and tighter around it until finally the ship visibly warped, and the engines visibly exploded as it crushed it in its grip. Finally, the tentacle brought the ship down _hard_, smashing it right into the ground, nose-first.

It brought it up and smashed it twice more, then flung it in the opposite direction of Rommel, before finally retracting down the hole it had emerged from.

Rommel stood silently in the middle of the airfield, watching the Pelican crashing off in the distance in a flaming wreckage The only noise he was capable of emitting anymore was a heavy panting- He'd ran all the way here, fought so much, and screamed his head off to get them to stop. And yet they still kept going.

Maybe they were going to pick him up after they'd killed all the monsters, maybe not. He didn't know. And he didn't care. He had nothing more he could say, nothing more he could do.

He slowly turned to look over his shoulder. The horde was still coming, their sights now solely on him. He felt like they were not many shapes, many beings, many creatures coming to destroy him. He felt like they were a wall, a tsunami, a deluge, a _flood, _a single entity with the purpose to destroy.

It didn't matter how he felt. He'd be dead soon enough now. He'd lost his chance, and he doubted there was any way in Hell he'd make it out of this predicament.

His head hurt, his bones ached, his mind _screamed, _his heart hammered, his stomach knotted, and everything else just felt numb. He'd already made peace with everything he needed to. He had plenty of things he wished he could still do, but had long since gotten over that today. He pulled the rifle once again from his back, and ejected the spent magazine. He flung it aside, knowing he wouldn't be needing it any longer.

As he inserted a new magazine, and placed a new grenade in the tube, he wondered again if it would be easier just to shoot himself outright, save himself the trouble of having to endure whatever he was about to. He'd often wondered that over the past twenty five years, passively at first, then more aggressively. Over the past four, he'd been tempted. A single slug could end it all in a second, end all the pain, the torture, the thoughts, the regrets.

But he did promise.

He set his feet apart, and brought the weapon to bear. He sighted in on them.

He _always_ held his promises, especially to his loved ones. And he'd go through whatever pain and torture he had to in order to keep them. And there wasn't a moment he'd even think to do otherwise.

He opened fire.


	27. Last Stand

Edward Wolffe Rommel stood firm in the face of many adversaries in the past. Some had effectively described him as being insane; he'd charge a heavily fortified position just to beat the bastard gunning for them over the head. He'd jump a Warthog off a tall building just to land it on a Scarab assault platform, kill all its crew, and have the thing under _his_ control in just a matter of minutes. He'd fly straight into the heart of the enemy, board their ships, and use the ship for his own purposes.

He'd done a lot of crazy, if not completely insane, things during his nearly eighty years of life. But he'd had a team alongside him who made it possible, who had his back. He'd never done it alone, though he often joked he could have. At the end of the day, everyone joked that Edward Rommel could have done it alone with his right hand behind his back and nothing but a pistol.

But as the oncoming wall of undead monstrosities came hurtling toward him, as the transport that could have carried him off-world burned, as the sound of each spent shell casing hitting the ground reached his ears, as the wall finally began taking on features of individuals... He felt anything _but_ unstoppable. He was a small child, hoping that holding his hands in front of him would stop the tsunami wave from wiping out everything he'd ever known.

His efforts were futile, of course. The current did not cease.

Nonetheless, no matter how his odds looked, he grinned in the face of adversity. Perhaps it was nervousness, perhaps it was to mock his enemy, or perhaps it was just for his own comfort... But as he gunned down his attackers, a song came to mind. He tried remembering where he heard it, but couldn't. He began to sing it aloud. **"**_**Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein... Und das heißt: Erika... Heiß von hunderttausend kleinen Bienelein... Wird umschwärmt, Erika...**_**"**

Even from his range, he could see the damage he was doing. One dropped, two dropped, one halved, one dismembered, two halved, three dropped. Sometimes, a single burst would kill one and damage the one next to it. A single forty millimeter grenade wiped out a dozen that were so closely packed that he couldn't discern what they were.

The mob was a mixture between races. Unggoy, Kig-yar, Sangheili, Human, and some things that were so far gone that he hadn't a clue what they'd been. Big ones, little ones, _huge_ ones. It would've been beautiful to think about, all these races working together, if it wasn't for the fact that they weren't. They were damn terrifying monsters. Whatever they'd been before was gone, they'd all been assimilated into the undead collective.

**"**_**Denn ihr Herz ist voller Süßigkeit... Zarter Duft entströmt dem Blütenkleid... Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein... Und das heißt: Erika.**_**"**

As the horde came closer, Rommel backed up, heading around the other side of the massive gap where the landing pad had once been. He questioned if it was wise to stand here, or if another massive tentacle would shoot out and crush _him,_ too. But it put space between him and the enemy, that was what mattered. They could jump over it, he knew, and they could easily go around it- But either way, it bought him time, and they'd be vulnerable airborne.

He didn't keep count. He had no way of knowing what he'd actually killed, or if he was actually killing them, for that matter. He saw them fall, saw them fall apart, but he couldn't possibly _know_ what he was looking at.

They were on him quicker than he'd expected. His eyes narrowed as the first one jumped leaped into the air over the gap- Where he promptly emptied several rounds into its torso, causing parts and pieces of it to fall off into the abyss below, or continue flying through the air anyhow. The body itself smashed into the ground beside him, the thing itself dead.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered the population of the planet. It was estimated to be somewhere just above a million. He wondered if anyone else was alive out there, even now, or if he was the last member of the living to be cut down in this mass grave.

He pulled all his fragmentation grenades out of his pouches. Three in total. He primed each, and lobbed them over the gap into the crowd. He saw the chunks in the distance, but it made no visible difference in the density of the assailants- They still kept coming, and coming, and coming.

So he kept firing, and firing, and firing.

_**"In der Heimat wohnt ein kleines Mägdelein. Und das heißt: Erika... Dieses Mädel ist mein treues Schätzelein. Und mein Glück, Erika."**_

One magazine clicked dry. Two, three, four.

_**"Wenn das Heidekraut rot-lila blüht, Singe ich zum Gruß ihr dieses Lied. Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein. Und das heißt: Erika."**_

He was down to his last magazine for the MA2B, and the horde was not even _close_ to having ceased.

He remembered where the song came from. His parents used to sing it. One day, Madeline had started singing it, too. It caught on.

Somewhere off to his left, he saw a pair of the bigger, brutish things come barreling down the ramp that he'd once been standing on. A pair of the spike-thrower things stood at the ledge, and another was being created on a communications array behind the track. He aimed for the spike-throwers first, placing a few well-aimed shots into what seemed to qualify as a head. The one on the comm-tower dropped easily, falling somewhere out of sight. The other two curled into a ball, and hopefully died.

That left the tanks. He fired one grenade from the M301 at the front-most one's center-mass, where it seemed to have the least amount of connectivity. Indeed, the monster was ripped in half, though it was hardly stopped. It kept dragging itself across the ground with the same tenacity as was to be expected of it.

He fired a second grenade into what was meant to be the next one's face, but it moved in such a way that it hit the shoulder instead. Its arm fell to the side, along with most of its torso, which caused it to go off-balance for a moment- However, it quickly regained its composure, and kept coming forward along with his halved companion.

But they were slowed. That gave him time to focus on the main horde again.

An ex-Elite thing- He had no idea what rank it might have been once, since its armor was corroded or covered in that fleshy mess- landed in front of him. He could only tell that it had once been an Elite because of its legs. Its hands were nothing but a mass of writhing tentacles, and a pair of larger, arm-like appendages that ended in blades jutted from where its shoulder blades had once been, which it held in front of itself in a manner that reminded him of a praying-mantis.

He didn't give it a chance to demonstrate how it used them. He brought his boot up hard into the thing's gut, knocking it on its ass. The slashing arms flailed at the air for a moment, but only a moment was what it had. He stuffed his gun into the chest cavity where the parasite would be held, and gave it a solid two seconds' worth of fire.

As he looked up again, the mob was upon him at every side.

He emptied the rest of the magazine into the crowd, and when it clicked dry, he fired his last grenade into them. Another terrifyingly unidentifiable thing came too close for comfort, so he brought the weapon around in a baseball-bat blow. The thing staggered backward, giving him just enough time to drive the weapon through its chest cavity. When it didn't go down, he kicked the butt of the rifle, driving it through the thing, killing it.

He ripped his sidearm from his thigh, and fired it indiscriminately at whatever came within his sights. Their screeching wails pierced through his ears, so loud now that he could barely even hear himself think. Not even the audio dampeners were helping him now, which meant that there had to be hundreds of them going off all at once... All screaming for his demise.

He couldn't remember where he was in the song. He stopped singing.

It wasn't until now that he finally realized that he'd still been backpedaling away from the group. He wondered if running before they had gotten close would've helped him at all, or if he'd have just been wasting time. Granted, what was done was done, and there was no way to change that. He'd probably be killed one way or another, and delaying the inevitable was senseless.

A sudden, sharp pain in his left arm reminded him just why. He looked down to find a spike embedded deep in his bicep, having ripped straight through his armor. He looked up, and found that there were even more of the spike-throwing bastards up on the ramp.

He lifted the pistol up, and fired it until they fell out of sight again.

His hopes of taking care of this matter were ended when he suddenly felt himself go airborne. It didn't take long to hit the ground, but when he did, he landed face-first. He blinked twice, trying to figure out why his vision was spider-webbed. He quickly found that his helmet's visor had been damaged, which had, in turn, hindered the night-vision capabilities.

He turned over, still on the ground, and pulled his helmet off with some effort. He could barely use his left arm, between the new damage and the old. They were closing in on him again, this he could see without the night-vision.

_The pistol. Where's the pistol?_

He looked around for a moment, desperately trying to find it. He managed to spot it laying close-by, after which he scrambled to it and seized it. He turned and pointed it at the nearest thing to him. A big, fugly looking thing that looked like a festering zit with tentacle arms and stubby legs.

He pulled the trigger, and was met only with a click.

**"Fuck." **He ejected the spent magazine, then flung it at the ugly thing. He held the barrel of the pistol to his mouth, and bit down on the slide. He began rummaging through his mostly empty pouches for another magazine, or at least a loose round that he hadn't properly loaded. Something, _anything_ to kill more of the bastards with.

He finally found another magazine, and slid it into the weapon successfully, which was still held between his teeth. He switched his hand back to the weapon's grip, and pulled the slide back using his teeth. He aimed it at what might've counted for the face of this jiggly, writhing, teetering mass of rotten flesh, and pulled the trigger.

The round caught it squarely, and the face imploded, leaking plenty of unidentifiable fluids onto the ground. The body slumped forward, seemingly dead. Rommel climbed to his feet, grinning, and kept firing at the rest of them, taking down several other monsters just like the puffy thing... Until he finally made the realization that they were still jiggling after death.

Suddenly, almost simultaneously, the bulbous section of the puffy creatures' backs erupted. Fleshy bits went up into the air in all directions, and Rommel himself had a few bits pasted across his face and chest. A whole slew of the parasites emerged from the corpses, and started heading straight for him.

The grin quickly disappeared from his face.

He sighted in on the first, pulled the trigger. The second, the third, the fourth. Before long, his magazine clicked dry again. He bit down on the slide of the gun again, silently cursed the twelve-round capacity of a single magazine, and tried his damnedest to fish out a new one.

As he found another, he became aware of the low, rumbling sound that emitted from every direction. They were _laughing_ at him. A thousand voices shared their laughter at his demise. He became acutely aware that more and more of the parasites were pouring out through the ranks. The horde itself had slowed down in terms of movement from its rampant charge to an intimidating approach. They knew they had him beat, and it was only a matter of time.

Rommel felt his face go red with rage. His brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed. He inserted the magazine again, and once again, pulled back the slide with his teeth. His left arm refused to respond anymore. As he removed the pistol from his teeth, he immediately locked them, and felt his lip quiver in a sneer.

They were _laughing_ at him.

He refused to endure this.

He ran forward, and as he did so, he kept firing. He let out a battle-cry of his own, running straight _into_ the group. He blew one away, embedded the butt of his pistol into the chest another, and fired again at something else. When at last the ammo ran out again, he jammed it into his belt, and ripped his knife from its sheath on his chest.

Edward Wolffe Rommel would die, but he would not die alone. He would die, but he would _not_ die silently.

He hacked, slashed, and stabbed his way at anything that came close enough for him to manage. He embedded the knife deep in the chest of a Human, who in turn, wrapped its arms around him in a crushing embrace. He forced all of his weight into it, causing them both to stumble and fall over. The thing still had him in its grip, but the knife was embedded all the way to the hilt in its chest.

He thrashed free of its grip, ripped the knife out, and stabbed it again. This time, he killed the thing.

And then he heard the strange sound that emitted from all around him, realized that the horde was no longer moving. He felt the tapping on his legs before he could correctly deduce what was going on. As he looked down, he saw that a wave of the parasites was coming toward him... And one of them was already at his thigh.

He slashed at this one, cleaving it in half horizontally. The next came, and he skewered it. Then there were five, then ten. He thrashed and writhed on the ground to get them off, but it was all of no use. He was overwhelmed.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his chest, which seemed to dig deeper and deeper. As he looked down, one sat firmly upon his chestplate, with its tendrils having dug through points where his armor did not cover, into his jumpsuit... And into his flesh.

His body felt like it was on fire. He tried to lash out at it, but his body refused, and instead, dropped the knife. He was instead reduced to a screaming mass of pain and agony, unable to do anything but watch as the inevitable occurred.

He felt his muscles spasm, as though an electric current had been sent through his body. He felt like he'd been hit by a taser. The world seemed to dim, his ears rang, he felt pain, he felt pleasure, he tasted sour, sweet, bitter, salty at his tongue all at the same time. He experienced all these things at once as his body lashed out at the world, a sensory overload beyond anything he'd ever experienced before.

The flames grew hotter, and pins and needles entered every pore of his skin.

Finally, the sensation ceased, and he felt his head drop backward, finally, his body done reeling.

His eyes rolled back in his head, and with an unobstructed view, he could see clearly the lake at the end of the airfield's runway. The sun was rising just beyond it, a bright orange ball that radiated outward from the water. He could feel its warmth on his face, after this long day of fighting, and felt himself grin.

He couldn't feel anything anymore but the warmth... And the tiredness.

His eyelids felt heavy. He let them fall, finally.

These things could have his shell if they wanted it so bad. He was done fighting. He couldn't anymore. He didn't know what lay beyond the veil, for him, but as he let his eyes close, he knew he'd find out soon enough.


	28. Reawaken

_The man sat patiently in the chair, with his feet kicked up on top of the table. He had the leather-bound book braced in one hand while the other slowly etched out a new picture. He was a tall, muscular man, who looked like he was in his mid-twenties, though the truth was that he was in his early fifties. He had short, blonde hair, which he wore in a decidedly military comb-over, and soft, puce-colored eyes, which were hardened into a look of concentration, his brow furrowed as he stared at the page in front of him. He could've passed for a movie star, the Superhero come from another world to save the day._

_ He brought his hand up to rub his jaw in thought, and frowned when he discovered that he had more stubble on his face than he originally thought. He'd have to shave again, then. That was a slightly more annoying task than he liked, but the rules were what they were. He just wished that he didn't have to do it every time he spent more than a day out of the cryo-pod, which really wasn't often enough._

_ He slowly reached over toward the coffee mug that sat on the park table in front of him, which the waitress had been so kind as to top off just a moment ago. He took a brief sip of it, and savored the warm, bitter-sweet taste. It was... Refreshing, on the cool, crisp second day of January, in the year 2525. Even on the planet Reach, that generally meant somewhere between Fall and Winter. _

_ Few were the opportunities to just sit down and relax._

_With a sigh as he considered that concept, he set the mug back down where he had retrieved it from. He let the journal fall to his lap for a moment, and pulled back the left sleeve of the heavy, black hooded utility jacket he wore over a white, long-sleeve button-down dress shirt to reveal the platinum wristwatch wrapped around his wrist. Certainly, it was flashy, but he'd foregone the diamonds. He could certainly afford it, but he didn't much care for the appearance._

_ The watch reported that the time was just a few minutes after noon. His watch was always right, with perhaps the exception of switching to a different time zone. Where was she? She was over a half an hour late. Edwina was never late._

_The sound of light footsteps began to pick up pace from somewhere behind him. Too light, too rapid to be male. Too heavy to be heels, not nearly light enough to be sneakers. Boots. Accompanied by the soft rustling of..._

_ What the Hell _was_ that?_

_"Hey, dad," came the voice from behind the man, as the rustling and the footfalls came closer._

_ "You're late?" the man said, without looking behind his shoulder. He grinned, slowly closing up the journal in front of him. He stuffed it into one of the side-pouches of his cargo pants, which were tucked into the knee-height combat boots that were currently kicked up onto the table. "You're never late."_

_ He felt a brief peck on his cheek as the girl stooped down behind him. He still didn't look, but her long, platinum-blonde hair didn't hide the grin on her face from his peripheral vision. "I'm sure you'll find my reason for tardiness to be more than satisfactory, father."_

_ "But... _You? Late?_ Never!" he joked, watching as his daughter came around to sit at the other side of the table. She was fifteen, nearly sixteen, and a decidedly pretty girl. Blonde hair, blue eyes, just like her father, and soft features that most girls her age would kill for, and men would do unspeakable things just to look at. She seemed to take after her father in terms of dress, albeit feminine- A black hoodie worn over a white tank-top, a long, black skirt, and even the laced jackboots. She might've been considered in the "punk" style, but he knew better. She was imitating him, though with her own twist on it._

_ As she sat, she set the thin plastic bags on the table itself and the ground next to it. He eyed the bag in front of him, which was marked with the logo of a particularly popular store that he knew was just around the corner. "Ahhh... _Shopping._ Of course, the one thing that will slow any sensible woman down to a snail's pace, no matter where she might have to be, or what father might be worried sick about where she might be, hmm?"_

_ "C'mon, dad, it's only been an hour. I said I'd be back here in an hour, didn't I?" she retorted._

_ "An hour and _ten whole minutes_. Why, how was _I_ supposed to know what had happened within those extra ten minutes?"_

_ "Okay, okay, fine, I was late by _ten minutes._ Happy? I had a good reason."_

_ "Well, let's hear it," the man replied, gesturing with his hands openly to suggest the floor was all hers, and that he would sit and listen attentively to her story._

_ "Not hear," she said, shaking her head. She pointed her finger at the bag. "See." She pushed the bag across the table toward him, and gestured for him to open it up and have a look at the contents._

_ The man furrowed his brow a moment, then shrugged. He dragged the bag closer to himself, and held it shut for a moment. He closed his eyes, as if visualizing the contents. "A new skirt, a dress that's too tall for you, the latest "designer" shoes, ten thousand different kinds of gaudy jewelry, some new game that I'm too old to comprehend, and a partridge in a pear tree. How's that, in the ballpark?"_

_ The girl chuckled. "No, dad. Those are in _these_ bags. Besides, they're not for me."_

_ "Oh? Then who _are _they for?"_

_"Mostly mom. Something in there for sissy, Peter, Dietrich. _That_ one's for you."_

_ "Me? Well, now, I _do_ love shiny things. Let's have a look-see, then," he replied, and opened up the bag. He was met with another bag, a thin, clear plastic one. There was something dark inside it that he couldn't identify from looking at, so he pulled out the next bag- Which was larger than he anticipated- and untied it. He reached into the bag, and grabbed the mystery item._

_ It was some kind of article of clothing. Some kind of black, leathery thing that was neatly folded up. He began to unfold it, and before too long, he realized what he was holding. It was a full-length leather trench coat. It was double-breasted, and had a lengthy shoulder cape, large brass, pebble-grain buttons, and a silky maroon lining on the inside of it. It didn't take an expert to realize this thing was expensive._

_ That's what had him worried. He looked up at Edwina, and cocked a brow. "You realize how much this thing would cost?"_

_ "Well. There's a reason it's in your hands right now, and I didn't leave the price tag on it."_

_ "You didn't-"_

_ "No! No way, no. Legitimately. I've got the tag in my purse. I just didn't want you to see the six-figure price tag."_

_ "Edwina-"_

_ "Kidding, dad. I got it from work. They gave it to me at only five."_

_ "Five-figure?"_

_ "Five _hundred. _One thousand at retail."_

_ "You shouldn't have. It's beautiful, I love it. I've always wanted one, but they won't let me wear these things at work. Not "professional" or uniform."_

_ "You wouldn't believe me if I said Captain Thomas said he'd turn a blind eye to it, would you?"_

_ The man appeared to be taken aback. "That old fart? How'd you convince- No, wait, I don't even want to know." He waved his hand back and forth and closed his eyes, as if trying to wipe an image from his mind._

_ "Dad! No way in H-"_

_ "Kidding, kidding!" the man shouted back, laughing his bellowing laugh. "But really, sweetie, I love it. I'll wear it all the time. I'd put it on right now, but..." He patted his side, just under his armpit. "Might be best to wait until we get to the car, hmm?"_

_ "I know, dad, I know," the girl said. She knew as well as he did that he carried his M6 everywhere he went. On-duty or off, he didn't go anywhere without it. It would be like leaving his arms at home, he just didn't feel right. The ancient handgun had become a part of him. "But I'm glad you like it. It was the only one they had in your size."_

_ "So now I've got a Helluva thing to live up to for your birthday next month, don't I? Have you decided how many of your hundreds of friends you're inviting?"He slogged down another mouthful of the coffee, which was thankfully still warm. He noticed the waitress was coming over again. "And before you answer that, what do you want for lunch?" he asked as he carefully folded and stuffed the coat back into the bag._

_ For the next two hours, the two ate, talked, and laughed about various things. Of all his kids, she was the one he finally had time for during her childhood. He'd successfully estranged the other three, since he was never there for them. He owned up to it, but he couldn't undo the damage he'd done. His time spent in the "Super-Special Forces," as he called them often, had left little for anything else. Not a letter, not a vid-call, not a phone call, or even a notice of where in the world he might have been. Just a notification every once in a while saying that he was still alive, and loved them very much._

_ His oldest was in his forties now, born when the man was only sixteen. _

_ When the time came, he checked his watch again to be sure. "Alright, it's almost two thirty. We'd best be getting home, your mother'll be wondering where we're at."_

_ Edwina stood up, and grabbed her bags. The man took his own at the same time, and checked his bill. He left for a moment to pay it at the counter, and paid it with a hefty tip for the waitress who'd patiently waited on him for the past four hours, the better part of two having been spent waiting on his daughter to show up._

_ The two of them left to go get in the car to go home. The car was about a block away, this being the more densely-populated region of Reach's city of New Emlek. To get a parking spot at all, you had to either be early, or lucky. _

_ The man and his daughter walked side by side. He himself was thankful that most people would still be at work, since it meant there was less traffic along the sidewalk."So. Still thinking about joining the UNSC, then?" he asked. He knew she'd been thinking about it for a while- It was part of the reason she imitated him so much, and why they had a good relationship._

_ "Mmmhm. Marines, like you. Soon as I can."_

_ "Technically I'm Navy nowadays. And not as soon as you can. You're _able_ at sixteen. You _can_ at eighteen, after you graduate."_

_ "You joined at sixteen."_

_ "I didn't like school, and I was going down a path that I didn't need to go down. Plus, I needed money for your brother."_

_ "You _had_ money, dad. And I don't like school either. All they ever talk about is the Insurgency, and how terribly it's going, and how they need more people to fight them."_

_ The man waved his hand dismissively. "It's a load of garbage. We'll win soon enough, we just need to put someone in charge who understands how. As long as the UEG's the one holding the leash, and politicians are in charge, we'll just drag it out. We'll win. We _are _winning. Just not as quickly as we could be."_

_ "The news says otherwise." _

_ "They don't know what they're talking about. I've had enough of their tabloid journalism, personally. Were it up to me, I'd put a gun in their hand, a bucket on their head, and sit them out in the battlefield. Once they _know _what's going on, they can talk about it. Until then, I've got a good place for them to shove those microphones."_

_ "That why you punched that reported on live television?"_

_ The man chuckled as they rounded the corner. "I had enough of her snide insinua-" He was suddenly cut off by the sound of a car burning rubber, and then a loud boom. The man spun around as people began screaming all around, and was met with the sight of the small cafe they were just sitting at being blown to Hell as a car bomb went off inside it._

_ The report of rifle shots went off in the distance, and the contrails were visible for a few seconds. People dropped in the street all around them. "Dad! What's going- Ugh!"_

_ Edwina staggered back, and dropped to her knees next to the man, then to the ground. Even as she dropped, he felt several impacts, like hard taps, hit him across the torso. He knew he was hit, but he wasn't worried about himself. He dropped to his knees next to the girl. "Edwina! Edwina!"_

_ Her shirt was stained with maroon, which pooled outward rapidly. She'd been shot multiple times, hit in multiple places from her throat to her hips. Her head lulled from side to side "Dad, you're bleeding, you're hurt..."_

_ His heart was hammering, and every neuron in his body fired. Bombs went off in his head, scrambling all his thoughts. "No, no I'm not. I'm not. But you are. I'm gonna get you out of here," he said. He was trying to stay calm for her sake, but the reality was that he was scared as Hell. He picked her up in his arms, and slung her over his shoulder, and started making a bee-line for his car. It wasn't that far, it wasn't that far. He'd get into the car and get her to the hospital. _

_ He got to the car, and made a move to open the car door. It was just five minutes. It was just-_

_ He felt another impact, this time in his shin, and he tripped and fell. He twisted himself in the air, and held Edwina tight. He hit the ground hard, felt the back of his head hit hard, but Edwina landed on top of him. She was okay, she was fine. He was fine._

_ He heard a loud cough, and he rolled her off of him._

_ He tried hard to scramble to his feet, but couldn't seem to find his balance. When he finally did, Edwina was having a coughing fit. "Stop, no, no, no!" he said, trying to sound calm still, but failing. He finally managed to get one of his feet on the ground, and saw that his shin had been shot through. He was sure the bone had been mangled, but he managed to get to his feet somehow._

_He looked down at her, and suddenly realized that she was coughing up blood. It was everywhere- It was all over her, all over him. Suddenly, he knew she'd been hit in the lungs._

_ "D-Da-"_

_ "Don't. Don't talk, save your energy." He stumbled over to the car door, and jammed a bloody hand into his pocket. He fished the keys out, and unlocked the door with some difficulty. He pulled the door open, then turned as he heard the coughing behind him. _

_ Suddenly, a rocket flew past his head, and into the building behind him. It smashed through the window, and blew up inside. The concussive blast threw him to the ground, and he felt his head hit hard again. His vision was decidedly blurred, and he could hardly think straight anymore._

_ Not letting that stop him, he dragged himself over to Edwina, who was having a more rapid coughing fit. He put a hand under her head, and the other around her chest to turn her toward him. "Hey, hey, talk to me. Talk to me, don't do that, talk to me!" he shouted. The girl looked up at him, and he realized that he had no way to stop the bleeding and get her to the hospital quickly enough to make a difference. Not amidst the chaos, not with her injuries._

_ "Dad... It hurts..."_

_ "I know it does, I know. You'll be okay, I- I'll- 'll get you out of here, I will." He could feel his face getting hotter, his cheeks getting red. And then the waterworks opened up, causing tears to stream down his face. It took every ounce of strength he had not to break down and start sobbing even then._

_ "Dad... It's okay..." she said, her voice slowly trailing off. Her breaths became more shallow, fewer and farther between. He knew she wasn't sucking in air. He knew enough medical knowledge. Pneumothorax and blood-filled lungs. She was in horrible shape._

_ "N- No it's not, it's not okay. I can't lose you! _I can't!_" he screamed. _

_ "I... I l-l-" _

_ "I know, don't talk like that, I know. I'll get you out of-" _

_ She let out a heavy breath, and her pupils began to dilate, her head falling to the side._

_ "No... No, no, no... Hey, look at me, you can't- You can't just... Arrrgh! NO!" he screamed. He brought her body up to him, and hugged her tight. The waterworks were on full blast. He sobbed between screams, and screamed between sobs. He cried until finally he could cry no more. When it finally subsided, he felt the rage welling up within him._

_ He lifted her body up, and put her in the car's passenger seat._

_ Several man came running out of the building next to him. He was wearing full armor, clad in black. Slapped on the chest plate and arm plates of the lead one was an Anarchy symbol, and gripped in his hands was an HMG-38. Only Insurgents used the HMG-38- The weapon was long since obsolete._

_ The man pulled back his utility jacket, revealing the holster that was attached to the inside of the jacket. He ripped the pistol out of the holster, and toggled the safety off. His eyes went wide, and his teeth were locked. He felt nothing but hate and contempt for these damn fools, these incorrigible men who had killed his daughter._

_ He sighted in on the first one, and vented his brains. The second, the third, and the fourth all fell even before they realized that the first was dead. He ejected the magazine, and replaced it with a new one from one of the many pockets in his jacket's lining._

_ No sooner than he did, the sky went dark, and the buildings around him began to shift and change. No longer was he amongst New Emlek's city sprawl, but amongst Sargresh's more "civilized" corporates and self-proclaimed philosophers. This city burned, even as Covenant ships overhead continued to glass it._

_ "Ed! Edward! Help!"_

_ He spun around to face the direction of the call, but it seemed to emanate from all directions. As he did, the light from the glassing beams illuminated a window. Shadowy shapes moved around from within, all featureless, but he knew what each of them looked like. Their faces were forever burned in his memory... Even as they pounded on the window, and were themselves burned away._

_ "Hey, Sarge! Watch it!"_

_ Human weapons opened up from either side of him, shadows of Humans gunning down shadows that took on Covenant shapes. The shapes took on the forms of his squad- Campbell, Findish, Miller, Almec. Almec tossed Rommel a rifle, and even as he snatched it in mid-air, he realized that he was in full gear now, his old wounds healed, with many more having since been added to them._

_ "This is _our planet! _Push 'em off this rock, I don't want a single Goddamn one of 'em standing by the end of the day!" he shouted, and turned his attention toward a nearing group._

_ "Yes, sir!" came the resounding reply. Gunfire raked at the aliens, and they fell away in droves, disintegrating as they hit the ground._

_ Suddenly, the shapes began to morph again. The Covenant began to sprout tentacles, their anatomy shifting, new appendages growing, taking on horrifying, indescribable features... And their numbers increased vastly._

_ They kept coming, and coming, and coming, these monsters. They dragged Campbell away first. Findish burst into flame, and disintegrated where he was. Miller simply vanished from sight, and a spike suddenly shot through Almec's helmet._

_ Rommel stood alone amongst the oncoming tidal wave. He gunned them down one after another as best he could, but it was all for naught. He killed his family. He killed his friends. Everyone he cared for was dead. He couldn't save them. Maybe he hadn't tried hard enough, but he couldn't save them._

_ He felt a hand on his shoulder. As he turned to look, he saw nothing but a large mass of shadow, which slowly took form the longer he stared at it. It was clad in black from head to toe in ODST armor, with maroon accents. Its helmet was cracked and shattered. Fleshy growths spurted out from under its armor in several areas, and its chest-plate had been shoved aside to make room for the parasite, whose sensory stalks seemed to flail wildly at him._

_ He looked down and recognized the _Totenkopf _slapped on the chest plate._

_ Several more ODST-shaped shadows joined it at its flanks, and beside them, more Human-shaped ones._

_ He couldn't save them. Not his family. Not his friends._

_ Not even himself._

_ He raised his M6B at the parasite, and pulled the trigger. _

_ Even as not-Rommel slumped over, Rommel himself burst into flame, and the rest of the swarm set upon him. His rounds no longer phased them, but before they reached him, the flame spread to them, and engulfed every one of them in a blazing inferno. _

Rommel's eyes opened slowly and he inhaled sharply, then again as the pain shot throughout his body from the sudden movement. He blinked three times rapidly, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the new lighting. Realizing that he couldn't see at all in the pitch blackness he was in, and that blinking did not force prosthetic eyes to adjust to pitch blackness, he tried looking around.

Most of the dream had been him reliving the day some twenty four years ago. Everything after was a mottled version of reality. Madeline, Edwina, Peter, Dietrich, and Eleanor were all dead. Rommel's parents were dead. And Rommel's friends were dead. But all that seemed a universe away, and until just now, he thought he was dead, too.

Maybe he was.

He didn't feel dead. Then again, he didn't know what being dead felt like. But to the best of his knowledge, even dead men didn't have nightmares. Hell didn't have breaks, nor would even it force him to relive that terror. Not even Hell could be so cruel. That left sheer nonexistence, which didn't make sense given his sudden awareness.

A thought occurred.

_Was any of it real? Did any of it happen, or am I just-_

_ Clink._

A flickered on beside him, which was held to the end of some kind of object that began glowing red. The small flame revealed a single black-clad figure for only a second before it flickered off again, and the sweet, almost flower-like fragrance hit his nose. He knew he was smelling the smoke of a Sweet Williams cigar.

**"Ah," **said a familiar voice from within the darkness. **"You're awake."**

The lights came on.


	29. Betrayal

Rommel blinked rapidly as the lights came on, trying to get his eyes to adjust again- In vain, a notion he kept forgetting- then shook his head rapidly as he felt a wave of something unidentifiable come over his being. It felt like a crawling sensation along his spine, and to the horror of his mind, maybe it_ was. _He couldn't tell, all he knew was that he was having some _serious_ arachnophobia at the moment.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the new bright light, which was not so bright after all, they settled in on the figure in front of him. It was clad in black armor, which was caked in grime. Rommel almost didn't recognize it as that of an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper, between the extensive damage and discoloration of it. Harder still was to identify the face of a person who was looking away from him for the most part, especially when there was a pistol barrel blocking his view.

The head turned slightly toward him. The cigar protruded from the corner of his mouth, the end a blazing ember from which the smoke emanated. While he got the idea that he ought to be looking at the _pistol, _rather than this man's face, there had been something familiar to the voice, to this one's appearance...

The eyes rolled in their sockets, an emerald-green that contrasted brightly with the short, dark hair atop this man's head. He still hid half his face from Rommel, but there was enough of a grin visible. **"What's the matter, Lieutenant? You don't recognize your old buddy Dominic?"**

Rommel's hope soared high into the air, and he felt his face curl into a shit-eating grin. He made a move to stand up and wrap his arms around the man, when suddenly he realized... His _hands and feet _were tied to the chair he was in. Something was _wrong_ here. This whole situation _reeked_ of wrong.

**"First off, it's **_**Senior, **_**you cheeky bastard.**__**I ain't been an El-Tee since '45," **he said warily. He struggled against his restraints, and suddenly became very aware that he did _not_ have his armor on. Everything from the waist down was intact, but everything from the waste up was _very_ exposed. **"Second off, what the fuck is this shit? Untie me."**

Almec shook his head slowly. **"I can't do that, Fullmetal. Not just yet. There's a **_**Hell **_**of a lot that we have to talk about."**

** "Then we'll talk. You'll get whatever damn answers you want, or whatever you need to say off your chest. Once you **_**untie**__**me.**_** Why the fuck am I tied up in the first place? What the fuck is your problem?"** he asked, struggling against his restraints again. He felt a sudden pain in his chest, and grunted loudly in response. What _was_ that, anyway?

**"The problem, Rommel, is that I **_**saw you die.**_** I saw you get swarmed by the entire damn horde of those things, I saw those little bastards crawling all over you. I saw them **_**latch onto your chest. **_**Hell, you ain't exactly looked in a mirror too many times recently, have you?"** Almec said. He tapped the barrel against Rommel's chest. **"Look down. I fucking dare you."**

Rommel's brows furrowed, and his eyes narrowed with discontent. He stared long and hard at Dominic Almec, the man who was his best friend. This was not the man he knew, the man who he'd spent nearly _eighty years of his life_ working alongside, from grade-school up until... How long he been out?

The truth was, Rommel didn't even want to know.

He also didn't want to look down.

He didn't know what he expected to find there. He half-expected that he'd discover his head was actually displaced from its proper position, and he was somehow still capable of speech. He half-expected to see bright red feathery feelers to be jutting out of his chest, waving wildly at the air. Hell, part of him thought he'd see that his body _wasn't even there _anymore.

He slowly looked down toward his chest, and immediately wished he hadn't.

All along his abdomen and pectoral area, there were lacerations, slashes, and- Especially near his chest- puncture marks that he suspected ran much, much deeper than he wanted to know. If he had to guess, he was probably damn lucky that organs were intact... Unless they _weren't_, in which case, his time was limited. In any event, it explained very clearly why he felt the amount of pain that he did.

**"Some of those marks were the size of a fucking **_**dime**_** yesterday, Rommel," **the man said, the gun still not lowered, but at the same time, not shoved in his face anymore. **"And your arm. Look at your fucking arm. It was barely holding on when I found you, now it's totally intact. I can't tell you how deep they went, but I can damn sure tell you that I saw bone. Now, I **_**don't. **_**There's no way in Hell you healed that fast. No fucking way. Moreover, why is it that **_**you**_** didn't die when they latched onto you? **_**Why?**_**"**

Rommel continued staring for a while. He wanted to try wrapping his head around that, in a way, but at the same time... He really didn't _want_ to think about it. But somewhere in the back of his head, he knew there was something more to it. Deep down, he wanted the answer to why they _didn't infect him. _Did they not _try_ infecting him? Did they just try _killing_ him?

_… Or am I immune...?_

That still didn't answer why they'd healed so fast. Rommel was naturally resilient, and he did heal faster than the average Human... But he definitely didn't just shrug off getting ripped to pieces so easily. Let alone having what essentially amounted to a giant fucking spider tearing him up and trying to root itself into his chest or spine. That, he did _not_ understand how he could heal from.

He didn't have an answer for Almec, even as he had the pistol aimed for his head, right between his eyes. **"Now, I'm gonna assume you're not some kind of trick-zombie. You don't sound like them, you don't look like them. I don't know how the Hell you're alive, but-"**

** "I **_**don't**_** like it either, Dom." **Rommel slowly looked up at his friend and captor. His voice was solid, and his expression suggested that he was, in a way, disappointed. **"You think I like being alive when everyone else is dead? You think I wouldn't **_**gladly**_** trade places with any one of those people who died today?" **He shook his head. **"You'd be wrong. You'd be **_**damn**_** wrong. Why should I be alive when everyone else died?"**

He tried to meet the man's gaze. He still had never turned his head fully toward Rommel.

Suddenly, all the dots connected.

**"I thought **_**you **_**were dead, you know. I saw your fucking helmet. How come **_**you're**_** still alive, huh? You **_**saw**_** me get swarmed, you said. You **_**saw**_** it, huh? Why the fuck didn't you try helping me? **_**Where the fuck were you?**_**" **he asked, slowly feeling the rage welling back up within him. **"Why aren't **_**you**_** infected, huh? Huh, Dom?"**

At the same moment, Rommel suddenly had the realization that Almec didn't smoke. He hated it, never had done any more than try it. That meant something was extremely wrong here... It also meant that Almec was smoking Rommel's cigars, which meant he'd been rifling through Rommel's belongings. The first fact bothered him more, clearly, though the second was clear evidence of the former.

Almec pulled the cigar from his mouth, and the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. **"Good ****question, Ed,"** he said as he set the cigar down on a table, beside the chair in which he sat. It occurred to Rommel that Almec's speech was still slightly garbled, which he'd previously attributed to the cigar.

It was also for the first time now that Rommel realized they were actually sitting in the barracks. In their shared quarters, to be more precise. The blood-stained bunk was where Rommel had been lying for... He didn't know how long, until Almec suspected he was waking up. Then he tied him up in this chair using rope and rappel cords from their rucksacks.

_Crafty son of a bitch._

And for the first time, Almec turned to look at Rommel head-on, sit and face him directly. The end result made Rommel's jaw drop. **"Why am **_**I **_**not infected?"**

Half of Almec's face was pretty much gone. The entire right side of his face was _heavily_ mutilated, especially where the only thing that really held Almec's jaw to his head was gauze, bandages, and duct tape. From his cheek bone down to the bottom of his jaw, it appeared to be held together only by what was there, and whatever flesh was visible looked necrotic. His teeth showed visibly through the flesh torn from the side of his face.

**"It isn't from a lack of trying. That's for damn sure."**

** "Jesus, that ain't pretty. When I found that spike in your helmet..."**

Almec nodded. **"I know how bad it is, and I don't care anymore... They tried me, too, you know. I got those same damn marks as you do, and this thing here used to be worse. Just like you."**

Rommel slowly nodded back in response. That was... Somewhat ominous, and he was beginning to see a connection forming, though it still wasn't clicking. And it didn't matter, because what he was _really_ curious about was the next one. **"Now, why the Hell didn't you help me when you had the chance?"**

** "Two reasons, Ed," **the man stated, holding up his fingers in a "V." He lifted up the pistol in his hand, and pointed it toward the ceiling. Then he pointed at it. **"There's a grand total of **_**three **_**rounds in this thing. Dodging those things, getting away from 'em... That burned through just as much ammo as you did. I didn't even have my rifle anymore, I'd dropped it in the water."**

** "That... Makes sense... And the second?"**

** "The fact that I was hoping I'd be on that Pelican, and you'd have died before the thing even took off. I was hoping you'd either have been killed by the swarm, since my hope that you'd died in the fall from the bridge was crushed," **the man replied in a completely flat, deadpan tone... As much as he didn't want to believe it, he knew his friend was _not_ his friend anymore.

The rage peaked, and it took a great deal of effort to keep himself from struggling against the restraints, or just plain getting up and kicking this _thing's_ ass, tied up or not. He felt his blood boiling, and he knew his face was a bright, burning red. A hundred thousand thoughts surged through his head all at once, and it took some more calculation to pick out the one he wanted. When he found it, it was simple, but it got the point across: **"Why?"**

** "2545. Reach. I know you're aware of the event I'm talking about, Ed."**

** "Yeah, the hostage situation. The one that got my sister killed in the end. She got shot, her hospital got glassed, and I slaughtered all the fuckers responsible. The Hell's that got to do with..."** He stopped dead in his tracks. **"No. Not all of them."**

** "That's right. You're looking at the guy who fed them information for **_**years.**_** For what it's worth, she wasn't meant to be there, it was just convenience. I didn't actively participate in the events, of course- I just fed them information, which came directly from you and ONI. You, ONI, and the moles that're higher up in the chain than I am."**

** "If what you say is true, you're lower than dog shit, there is no height on the chain," **Rommel spat, shaking his head. **"And if that's the case, you better fucking pray that this chair is stronger than I am. Because I feel like I could tear your head off with my fucking teeth right now, and I just woke up. You don't want to know what I'd do to you if-"**

** "I **_**do**_** know, Ed. I seem to remember a couple Insurrectionist leaders going missing and having been found several days later either burned, maimed, or impaled out in the middle of nowhere."**

** "And buddy, if I have a say in it, I'll make sure that there's a sharpened pole through your ass and out the top of your **_**fucking skull!**_**" **he shouted. He rocked the chair back and forth, pushing outward on the ties that held him prisoner. **"I will **_**fucking murder you!**_**"**

** "And that's why I'm sitting here, and you're sitting there. But none of this matters right now, because if we don't get off this planet? It won't matter if you live, or I live, or if your sister died, or your kids died, or your wife, or your parents, or mine, or Campbell's, Findish, Miller, **_**whoever.**_**" **There was a long pause after the statement, as though he intended to let it sit in.

For Rommel, it had simply fallen upon ears of stone. Though the same question came up in his head again: **"Why? Why'd you do it?"**

** "Why do you think?"**

If it was that simple a response, Rommel knew the answer. It wasn't because he believed in the Insurgent cause, or any other stupid things like that- It was because they offered to pay him more than the UNSC ever had. Greed was the ultimate cause for any one man to betray another. Rommel should've seen that hit coming from a mile away.

**"But we still need to work together on this one. You've been out about a day and a half. The base's AI still works, and it still has control over a couple things. Including the city's Superintendent AI. There aren't anymore space-worthy ships here, Rommel. **_**None.**_** The only thing that's left is a couple of Falcons, and maybe somebody over the fucking sea that may or may not be alive, and may or may not have a space-worthy craft."**

** "Then why would I bother working with you if that just means the only thing that's left is to wait for the Goddamn world to burn?"**

** "Because there's still an intact Corvette attached to the Supercarrier. It landed at an angle, so the Corvette didn't get damaged. At least, not much. But it'll be total **_**Hell**_** to get to it..."** Miller started, crossing his arms as he did so. **"And things are a Helluva lot worse than they were when you were awake."**

** "So we're going in fucking circles now. Nice. We already established that the damn Falcons don't work, their engines get jammed up by that spore shit in the air."**

** "Only at high altitudes. Lower down, the spores just go right past it without touching it."**

** "So we get shot at, shot down, or some other shit. Big deal, fucked is fucked. Kill me or don't, but don't waste my time with..." **He trailed off as the words finally sank in completely, and suddenly he knew exactly what was going on. He leaned back in his chair, let his head fall back, and let out a loud, bellowing laugh.

**"You've just figured it out, haven't you?"** Almec asked, picking up the cigar and stuffing it back into his mouth again.

**"You won't kill me because you _can't_," **Rommel said between breaths. **"Because you _can't fly _a Covenant ship. You haven't killed me because you think I'll fly you off this graveyard of a planet, away from all the ghosties, ghoulies, and long-haired beasties."**

** "And you will," **Almec said assuredly. **"Because you've already thought about warning the UNSC about this place, having them fly in and destroy it. But you've already realized the other potential outcomes if you _did_ tell them."**

Rommel said nothing in response. He was waiting for the punch-line to the whole joke, because he would sooner die than fly the man who'd betrayed him out of the clutches of a fate far worse than death. No, this man _needed_ to die. And there was hardly anything he could say or do to convince Rommel otherwise.

**"Kovcheg's AI provided some other information, too. The boys on that Pelican weren't just coming here to escape. They planted a little something here before they left. A Fury tactical nuke, fresh from the lower levels of the base. When they planted it, Miller wasn't with them, either."**

** "Then where the Hell is it?"**

Almec shifted in his chair, revealing two pairs of rucksacks. One of them was Almec's, presumably. The other one was... Well, he wasn't sure where it had come from. He parted them to reveal the somewhat large, almost egg-shaped object that might not have been too intimidating to look at... Until the observer came to realize that they were holding a 63-terajoule weapon of mass destruction.

**"You disarmed it?" **

** "No. They never armed it, realized they didn't know if they even had a ride out of here. Maybe somebody was meant to stay behind and arm it then run for it, but I didn't see anyone living around." **He gave the thing a hard slap, then turned the keypad toward Rommel. It glowed a dull, yellow-green. **"It still works."**

Rommel rolled his eyes, and let his head fall back toward the ceiling again. He slowly closed his eyes, and let out a melodramatic groan.**"Yeah... I can see that... So where the Hell's all this circular logic heading to? Quit trying to build suspense, I'm falling asleep here, man..."**

** "The base's AI said we needed to contain the situation. I'll paraphrase. The planet's not very big, only... I can't even remember the numbers. Between that, the current atmospheric conditions, between our atmospheric processors and them changing the composition, then under the right conditions, we could get into that Supercarrier and cause a wildcat destabilization of critical systems. The reactor core, Slipspace drive, and possibly engines would all go critical, and blow."**

** "Jesus. That'd be enough to pop the cork on this rock, if not vaporize half of it..."**

** "An asteroid field, basically, yeah. And between the shockwave, radiation, and just general destruction of the planet itself, any organic life and most structures would befall a similar fate."**

** "So there's a way to get off the planet and a way up to blow up the planet in the same location. And there's a catalyst to start the process sitting right there on that desk."**

** "Right. But neither of us would stand a chance going at it alone, and I wouldn't get off-world without your help," **Almec said, slowly getting to his feet. In one hand, he held a combat knife- Which Rommel felt pretty certain was _his_- and in the other hand, the M6D.** "So, what do you say, Rommel? We set our differences aside, get out of here for now, and end the charade once we don't have to worry about getting our asses torn apart- Deal?"**

Rommel sat there silently for a moment, thinking long and hard about the whole ordeal. On one hand, every fiber of his being wanted to rip Almec apart. The fact that he'd been friends with him for seventy-something years meant nothing anymore- This man was responsible for a personal strike against Rommel, then spent almost five years playing it off.

_Irreparable. Irredeemable. Incorrigible!_

But to refuse the offer would be to possibly damn some other planet to the same fate. More innocent people dead, more lives ruined, another world lost- And then, what if it was a _larger_ colony? The same options might not be available, and then these things would be on _two_ worlds. Who knew what they were capable of when left to their own devices. Eventually, they might be able to get off-world- If they weren't already- _without_ using the larger ships, or coming back with another fleet to ferry more of them off-world.

Edward Wolffe Rommel was a jackass, certainly. To some- Even to himself- he was a downright _monster_ in some cases. To any man who was his enemy, to any _alien_ that was his enemy, he was the thing that went bump in the night, the monster in the closet, the demon under the bed.

But when it came to those who had done no wrong, it was another matter entirely. He couldn't damn a species based on the actions of one man, no matter how badly it would _pain_ him, make him wriggle and writhe, want to shoot the man in the back.

He sighed loudly, and didn't meet the man's eyes. He stared up at the ceiling, absolutely hating the fact that Almec was right. **"Fine. 'Til we're on the ground far away from this place, you've got a deal."**

** "Good. As it was, I was hoping I wouldn't have to blow your brains out in front of her. She's been so quiet and helpful. I bet you didn't even notice her."**

Rommel's eyes opened, and he looked up at Almec. **"Her?"**


	30. A Fragile Alliance

Rommel glared at Almec in silence. If looks could kill, then the more destructive part of the plan this inhuman thing had laid out for him would've been simple, because the entire _planet_ would've been destroyed with but a glance. The better part of the plan, getting out in one piece, wouldn't be nearly as applicable, but at the rate things were going, that was almost ceasing to be an option as it is.

For all the Spook's bile and venom, however, the man who was certainly no man at all continued to stare past him. He continued to stare just past Rommel's right shoulder. All the while, he continued giving a sadistic half-smile with his half-face that would've sent any self-respecting Demon running back for whatever flame-spouting gulley had been ripped open for its Grand Debut with its tail tucked between its legs while crying for its mother.

It was a ruse. Surely, it had to be some kind of distraction. There was no "_her_,_"_ there was only the two of them sitting in this room. The second Rommel turned his head to look, he would receive at least one of those three remaining rounds in that pistol's magazine either in the belly or in the side of his face, a replicated visage in response to the so-called injustice done to this monster's own flesh.

_At least we'd go to Hell with matching faces. Better than matching T-shirts any day, and always in season in the Underworld._

Not that the weapon really held three bullets. It held three bullets plus another nine, and the M7 hidden behind his back with an extra sixty more to shred him to bits. Not that it would _take_ seventy two rounds of various ammunition types to photocopy a similar image onto somebody else, but if their roles were switched, and Rommel had been waiting this long to off somebody, he wouldn't be satisfied until their torso was messily divided into its four quadrants with high-caliber rounds.

Despite Rommel's gut feeling that he was about to become a viable candidate for a Twenty-Sixth Century rendition of a comic book character's arch-nemesis with a Glasgow smile, logic dictated otherwise. If his old best friend, newly turned foe, had any intention of shattering his false pearly whites and searing his facial muscles with one of those alleged three rounds, it was just as well he could have sat up, held Rommel in place, and displaced the contents of his mouth with relative ease. The only thing he gained by trickery now was some sick satisfaction, and a prolonging of his overall goal.

_Get on with it. Either way you're fucked._

Anticipating his new role as the Dark Knight's arch-enemy, Rommel slowly turned his head to look over his right shoulder.

He was not awarded with any kind of impromptu reconstructive surgery performed by gunshot.

Close to the doorway stood a figure he estimated to be somewhere in the vicinity of four and a half feet, most likely less, clad in a rust red top and some kind of shorts. Snow-pale skin covered long, gangly limbs that sprouted from the nearly formless clothes, which ended in decidedly Human enough hands and feet as opposed to tentacles or claws.

Matted brown hair fell in long locks from the top of the figure's head, though Rommel's imagination originally had shown them growing from the inside of a white civilian-issued gas mask that kept the entirety of its face from view.

It wasn't until he paid closer attention that he realized the tank top had been sky-blue at one point, and the black, brown, and red-spattered jean shorts had once been white.

Being familiar enough with both the mentality and physical form of a Human child, he managed to successfully draw the super-sleuth conclusion that this was, in fact, a very slight little girl. One who had now been forced to witness horrors unparalleled by anything else in the galaxy.

Rommel shuddered. Most people in his age group were already retiring, thinking they'd seen everything, knew everything. These things still just about made him shit himself every time he saw them. He didn't even _want_ to imagine what it must've been like for this poor thing who stood in the doorway.

He managed fake enthusiasm, despite everything. **"Hey there," **he said slowly, with the idea that he _was_ talking to a small child in mind. **"What's your name?"**

The girl said nothing, offered no noise of acknowledgment, nor even moved to suggest she was amongst the living.

_Did I mistake a fucking corpse for a living person?_

**"She doesn't talk. Or nod. Or shake her head. Or much of anything, other than scream or stare," **Almec offered up, a conciliatory explanation apparently being awarded for his efforts. **"Trauma, probably. All that red must've come from somewhere, and I'm guessing she's reliving the source of it pretty constantly. Best guess, she watched her parents get slaugh-"**

** "**_**Enough,**_**" **Rommel barked. Even for a monster wearing a man's skin, this newly born creature seemed to have no remorse, no sympathy, no empathy. **"For God's sake, she's standing right there. Keep your thoughts to your own damn self." **

**"Not like she's paying much mind, anyway," **he continued. **"I don't think she listens for anything more than the noises those things make. Which are damn-near constant, so she might as well be in a trance."**

** "You'd be surprised at how much kids manage to hear when they're not listening," **Rommel retorted. He glanced toward the girl, who still hadn't moved in the slightest bit. He smiled at her knowingly, then gave a brief wink before turning away. **"What's with the mask?"**

** "The gas mask. Right." **Almec shifted in his seat, leaning forward. Evidently, this was about to be one Hell of an explanation. **"So, you've been out for a considerable amount of time. Unfortunately for you, the galaxy did not cease to exist during this blackout, and went ahead and kept on spinning. Which, for Nasip, was even worse. Those spores we were just talking about?"**

** "Yeah? What about 'em?"**

** "The entire sky's covered with them. I'm talking about the level where you can't even see the Sun. Entire sky looks like it's painted in vomit, I shit you not. The ground isn't much better, either. Found out that those spores are definitely of the mutating variety, and if not, they'll still suffocate you. So, no chance of getting outside without some kind of filtration system. Speaking of the ground, you remember the storm drains where Findish got chopped?"**

** "Oh, **_**shit,**_** don't you dare say what I think-"**

** "Yes. The **_**entire city**_** looks like that now, and far worse than it was, too," **the man said, leaning back in his chair again.** "I won't offer any description, you'll see it for yourself soon enough."**

Rommel let his head hang down for a while so that he stared at his feet. The implications of the entire thing were catastrophic. Down in that subterranean labyrinth, the walls were fleshy if not alive, moving if not living, _hostile_ if not violent. Tentacles had lashed out to restrain. Boils had popped to produce parasites. The dead were interred and integrated into the system to better assault any unwary prey that might stumble across the area.

Things now were apparently much _worse,_ according to Almec. Rommel wasn't sure what exactly _worse_ consisted of when shit creek seemed to mix with the River Styx, but then again, he didn't doubt that it was worse either. Never again could he rightly consider that conditions might be at their worst, because some new breed of shitstorm always managed to be concocted by some harebrained scheme of the galaxy.

When one woke up in the morning and found that they were now dealing with the _living dead,_ to discount any possibility was neither likely nor intelligent.

Almec stood slowly, and went toward Rommel as it all sunk in. He approached with Rommel's knife in hand, apparently intending to cut him loose or cut him up. He paused before Rommel, then finally knelt down to cut the binds that held him in place. First the ones at his feet, clearly wary that the man might lash out and knock the rest of his jaw loose from his face with a wayward kick, before moving behind him to saw at the restraints that bound his hands.

As Rommel's hands came free and he made a move to stand, he felt one of Almec's grab his forearm while cold steel found its way to his throat. It wasn't a menacing gesture, but the intent was present nonetheless. **"**_**Slowly,**_**" **Almec commanded, before letting him go. Rommel complied, first reaching his arms outward to his sides to make their presence clear, before finally rising to his full height.

Almec was by no means a small man, but as Rommel turned around to face him, he suddenly became very aware of how easily he could probably overpower him. It would take just a moment to overpower him, tear his weapons away from him, then tear his very _life_ from him. At first, he thought he might come to regret it later. However, the more he thought about it, the more he decided that no matter the case, he couldn't feel any form of pity or remorse for the being that was in front of him.

Dominic Almec was dead. How long for, Rommel could not be certain. His body was just having a hard time catching up with him, apparently, for the thing that possessed it now was unwilling to relinquish its grip on it.

But he'd need help with getting out alive. He wasn't totally sure he wanted to be alive after all that had happened to him, but for now, he was pretty sure he didn't want to die because of _these things. _Not here, not now. Covenant, maybe that'd be acceptable. He could deal with Insurrectionists if he died with a thousand rounds having torn him to shreds while he tore _them_ to shreds with his bare hands, or in a blaze of nuclear glory.

Being lost to these monsters, though, his body mutilated, maybe recycled or just plain lost, his fate unknown to the galaxy? Unacceptable. Especially not while the monster before him still lived.

Almec slowly reached to his thigh, and drew a familiar looking M6 from it. Hesitantly, he offered Rommel's pistol to him, which Rommel snagged out of his hand with a look that indicated something less than gratitude. He brought the pistol up to his face to confirm it was still in the same condition he'd left it in.

The magazine was empty, as he expected. He was pretty sure he'd used all his ammo on the zombified bastards days ago. There were still traces of grime along the barrel and grip from having bludgeoned a few of them, but ultimately, it was still as it was. It was still his M6B retrofitted into an M6S, with its black oxide finish. He ran his thumb along the pistol's side grip panels, feeling the texture of its ribbed plating. He could recall a time when the grips had been dark red wood, smooth in texture and pleasing to both the touch and the eye.

After one too many bludgeonings of hostile forces, the wooden panels had finally broken. The main culprit was age, though it didn't help in that he was pretty sure it was a Grunt Ultra that had been felled by the wooden panels' final blow. The little bastards were tough. Their armor might have been blindingly snow-white, but it was durable as Hell. So, he opted for cheap replacements available in an armory. He never liked them as much, but they worked.

Maybe he'd replace them again once he was off this rock, restore the weapon to its former glory.

Maybe not.

**"So. We've got a flood of these undead bastards outside, no ammunition, no guarantee that we'll be able to find any more. We're outnumbered, outgunned, and outclassed by an endless horde of monsters even between here and the aircraft, provided it's still there, and an infinite amount more between there and a CSO-Class Supercarrier that's an overgrown and infested city away," **Rommel said, trying to recount in his memory all the details.

**"We're going **_**into**_** the Supercarrier, the heart of the infestation, to plant a FURY Tactical Nuclear Weapon in its core, thereby disrupting the reactor core, maybe the engines too, creating a runaway process that'll cause the planet to be reduced to dust and echoes. All the while, we try to outrun the timer and the blast in a Covenant Corvette that may or may not exist." **He paused for a while, trying to take all that in. It sounded simple to say, and yet not in the slightest. It was completely insane. **"I wish I could say I've faced worse odds."**

Almec shrugged, and handed Rommel the combat knife as well. He proceeded to tuck the knife into its chest-bound sheath, and set the pistol onto his thigh via the invisible magnetic holster that was present. **"We managed impossible odds before. Maybe not as impossible as this, but we've been known to pull a trick or two out of our sleeves. Granted, there were more of us. And the others are gone, I'm certain of that. But if we can manage to get a hold on more ammo, we might just have a chance. Armory's not too far off, after all. It's the Supercarrier that'll be the hard part."**

Rommel nodded. That was all true. If they were lucky, they could just bypass everything until they got to that point. Not that he expected to be able to. **"Worth a shot. What about her?"** he asked, gesturing toward the girl. **"What do you plan on doing with her?"**

** "Haven't figured that out yet. She'll probably just slow us down, honestly. Doubt she can handle a gun, or keep up if we have to run, but I know you too well to suggest we leave her."**

** "Something tells me the feeling isn't mutual," **Rommel said as he gave her a sidelong glance. Maybe... Maybe they could hand her something. An M7S might have been manageable for someone her size, but... It seemed unlikely she'd know how to use it, and training her to do so at this point would be a laughable expectation. **"But yeah. We'll take her." **

Everyone was silent for a moment as they seemed to contemplate the scenario. The only sounds were those of the girl's gas-mask breaths, and Almec's ragged inhalations through the half of his face that was exposed to the elements. Finally, Almec broke the silence. **"You know, Rommel, I got to thinking... The others all ended up being infected by those parasites. Died. We have no reason to expect that anyone's immune, and yet here we stand. Why did we live? What made us immune to infection?"**

Rommel thought on the matter. He couldn't honestly think of too many things that would matter for anything. Experience, training, expertise- These were all meaningless differences, as they weren't entirely physical, and he doubted the mentality mattered. Dead was dead, so it had to be something physical. Rommel's only real physical difference from everyone else was mostly his size. There was also the matter of his birth, which wasn't normal in and of itself, but wasn't something the two of them shared. Genetics, then, was the only answer. Moreover, something drastic that only the two of them shared.

He looked up toward Almec, and blinked once. **"ORION?" **


	31. Project: ORION

Rommel swung his empty pistol around the doorway to the armory, and swept it from side to side. He gripped his knife in his other hand, ready to tear into anything that moved. Almec did the same at the other side of the door, both of them with their flashlights on to reveal any possible hostiles hiding in the room. There wasn't anything directly hostile in the room. Just more of the same rotting-flesh-colored filth that seemed characteristic of the creatures that had taken over the base.

Almost every square inch of the halls were covered in the the gunk. The biomass wasn't just that odd coyote-brown color it had been before, though. Time had given it new colors that one might expect to come with rot. Shades of pestilent greens and necrotic blacks had worked their way into the mix, as well as the occasional vibrant reds associated with exposed innards. The only areas that weren't usually coated in the stuff were ventilation shafts or grates in the floor.

He could only assume the crap didn't form well on the grates, but the vents certainly had a much more sinister purpose. On more than one occasion during the trip from the barracks room to the armory, they'd witnessed tentacles dangling down from the vents, lying in wait for prey of some kind. Other times, they'd seen the monstrous beings themselves leap from the ground into the open shafts, or vice versa.

**"Clear," **Rommel announced, and half-lowered his pistol as he stepped into the room. There was no way of knowing it was _totally_ clear. Nonetheless, he was going to have to dig _through_ the sludge to find something usable. Most of the weapon racks were covered in some way, shape, or form. The ammunition boxes were entirely coated in the crap.

With some annoyance, he picked a spot to start digging out a weapon. **"Hey, kid?"** he called quietly to the little girl. **"Recommend you don't touch this stuff, much as I want to ask for your help. Willing to bet it's contagious." **He clicked off his external comms and sighed loudly. Finding something that was serviceable and effective against the undead was going to be an issue.

The creatures themselves had changed, too. Many of them seemed to have formed in a way that their parasite wasn't directly exposed, but instead, the armor they wore protected them. If they didn't have armor, then the parasite oftentimes buried itself deeper in the chest, and used the victim's ribs as some kind of shield. In some cases, it seemed that much of the organic material around the stomach had been removed, and was repurposed for more deadly uses.

Some of the creatures now had tentacles protruding from their backs, more often than not around their shoulder blades. Sometimes, it looked like their actual _arms_ had been pushed back to their shoulder blades. Usually the hands themselves remained around the chest as small gripping appendages, the fingers elongated into little grabbing tentacles to keep a potential victim held. The back appendages usually ended in sharp tips, pointed barbs, or scythe-like blades made of bone. A lot of the ones that had developed this way were a necrotic black, with hints of green and red streaked through them.

The trio had seen a fair amount of them shambling through the halls, evidently unaware or uncaring about their presence. In all cases, they were avoided in their entirety. They didn't have any ammunition between the two of them. Almec had three rounds, and Rommel had spent all of his during his Colonel Custard moment. With the more terrifying looking new ones, neither of them could safely say their durability was the same as that of the others. They might have formed in a way that afforded them some extra endurance. If they had armor, it was almost certain that they couldn't safely be brought down.

Especially not by bludgeoning them with empty pistols and hacking at them with combat knives.

He wedged his combat knife into a section of an exposed grate that was meant to keep a set of assault rifles locked up, and started to work at it in any way he could. Normally, the metal would've been heavily resistant to the knife. To Rommel's surprise, however, he could cut through it fairly effectively. The metal had somehow become corroded enough to make it soft and weak. A few areas remained that resisted, but much of it Rommel was able to cut, break, pry, or otherwise bypass.

He started cutting away at the biomass surrounding the cage to get better access, supposing that much of the grate beneath it would be even more corroded.

He was still having trouble wrapping his mind around everything. First the planet was overtaken by some kind of alien zombies, then his whole squad got separated and evidently killed, _he_ was nearly killed when a parasite tried infecting him, and then he found himself not only alive, but being held captive by his best friend. His best friend who just happened to be a traitor, having fed the resistance information for years.

On top of everything else, neither of them had been infected when there had been clear attempts on them.

The ORION Project had been little more than bitter memories for the longest time. It was the reboot of a timeless concept, creating the "ultimate super-soldier" to utterly crush any foes that stood in their way. Every military throughout history had an appreciation for the concept, and the UNSC was no different by any means.

The UNSC- Under the control of the United Earth Government at the time- had launched their first attempt at it in 2163, during the Interplanetary Wars. As always, the goal was to create faster and stronger soldiers. Five candidates had been selected from different military branches and subjected to a multitude of tests. The project was ultimately declare ineffective and dropped entirely, with each of the subjects having been placed back into their respective military branches to go on with their lives.

After three hundred and twenty eight years, the UNSC decided to try its hand once more.

The ORION Project was rebooted again in 2491, about four years after Rommel's initial enlistment into the UNSC Marine Corps. The goal was the same, but the test group had much larger numbers. It specifically targeted existing Special Forces, providing plenty of incentives to volunteer of one's own accord. Neither Rommel nor Almec had been Special Forces. In fact, having only just served their first four years, they were still relatively green by some standards. However, due to their exemplary records in those years, and because it was much easier to indoctrinate "fresher" soldiers, both managed to skirt the borders of the requirements. They became a part of the initial sixty-five member project.

Edward Rommel had signed up because he had a wife and child to feed. Despite the vast wealth he had due to his parents' status in the galaxy, he was always in need of more.

Dominic Almec had signed up to follow his childhood friend and have his back.

ORION's training had been brutal. All of the UNSC's most valuable resources had been piled into turning a wide variety of men and women who had already spent time serving in the military into the perfect soldier. Plenty of people had to be broken down entirely and built back up from scratch. Especially the veterans of Special Forces units. Rommel had caught on quickly, and embraced it. Almec had struggled at first, but ultimately grasped the concepts they were taught at an above average pace.

Much of the training was centered around atypical situations. Getting dropped behind enemy lines and surviving for extended periods of time. Taking out high-value targets in hostile-rich areas without detection, or from extremely long distances. Training in uncommon weapons such as the M99 Stanchion, M6 Galilean, and hard sound rifle. Rommel had always excelled, especially in the more combat-oriented areas of their training. The Galilean was still one of his favored weapons, and though he often took a less conventional approach to close quarters combat, he was unbeatable.

Training was not the only taxing part of ORION, however. The project introduced the idea of altering the chemical balances of the Human body to produce different results. Its members were subjected to various drugs and surgical procedures that had a vast range of purposes: Increased speed, agility, reflexes, and strength. A heightened sense of balance and a marked increase in intelligence. Enhanced hearing and sight sharp enough to nearly see in the dark. Increased lung capacity. Superior muscle density. Accelerated cellular regeneration. A decrease in the amount of necessary sleep. Immunity to most illnesses. Most depressingly for many troopers, an inability to become intoxicated through means of alcohol and many standard drugs.

For most, many of the procedures undertaken to achieve these effects had failed. Many only had a degree of the capabilities they were meant to, others had full effects in some areas and none in others, and an unfortunate few gained only a few increases in any areas at all. This was especially true of the veterans, whose bodies had already reached the peak of growth and so could not be drastically altered. In some of the cases of older members, the procedures produced very adverse effects.

Rommel was one of the very few fortunate ones who the procedures took well to, due in part to his youth. They very much shaped his physical form at least. All of the measures had their effects as well in pleasing ways, but none had been so profoundly as those that altered his physical traits. He had already been predisposed to be a large individual, but the procedures used for altering muscle density, strength, agility, and reflexes were almost runaway in how well they took hold. As a result, Rommel was a powerful giant of a man who could hold his breath for absurd amounts of time, see fairly well in the dark, was attuned to most noises in a way that most people were incapable of, and required little fuel for keeping himself going.

He was more or less the ultimate paragon of the project, everything it had hoped to accomplish.

He received plenty of flak for his near-perfection. He remembered a Private who was somewhat of a punk having cracked more than a few jokes about it. He didn't remember much about him anymore. An individual of some kind of African descent, claimed to be from the Chicago zone, and had a taste for the same kind of cigars as Rommel came to enjoy.

Rommel was pretty sure his name was Avery.

Almec, on the other hand, had more or less

Eventually, the project had come to envelop three hundred people into its ranks over the course of five years. It had been five long years before ORION was considered ready for official deployment. When they finally _were_ deployed, however, it was a nightmare for the Insurrection. The ORION units had been deployed to recapture a sub-orbital transit station above Eridanus II. All of the three hundred super-soldiers infiltrated the station without being detected, and proceeded to tear the station apart.

Only one of them had died during that mission. Rommel didn't even remember the poor sap's name, but he was pretty sure it had been one of the near-washouts. All he'd known at the time was that nobody under his own command had gotten killed, and that was good enough for him.

In a matter of some hilarity, the media had gotten hold of some conspiracy theorists who claimed that the UNSC had used genetically engineered soldiers during Operation: CHARLAMAGNE. Talk of the super-soldiers became so commonplace that ONI had given up on trying to deny it, and Section II got started on creating propaganda in regard to them.

CHARLAMAGNE had been the only time that the ORION troopers ever worked as a full unit. Nearly every engagement that they participated in required smaller numbers. Rommel, a Staff Sergeant at the time, had taken his team on several interesting runs. Sometimes, it was simple work, like gathering intelligence. Other times, it was taking out a target from a city's distance away with an M99 SASR. Once in a while, setting up explosives on a bridge with the intention of killing several high-ranking Insurgents. On more than one occasion Rommel had been ordered to make an example of an Insurrectionist leader.

He fondly remembered six flayed bodies skewered upon flagpoles outside a hotel. It had been a Secessionist Union world, and the tactic had scared them enough to come back around. Moreover, it had killed all major Insurrectionist leaders on the planet.

Within the fifteen years of ORION's operating status, however, problems began to emerge. Units started getting killed off left and right as the Insurrection adapted, or were sometimes captured to be subjected to far worse fates. Sometimes, they just went MIA. In its final few years, troopers started having health problems- Both physical and mental- as a result of their genetic alterations and the things they'd been forced to see or do. PTSD cases weren't uncommon. Several troopers were relieved from active duty as a result.

Worst yet, however, was the fact that many of the remaining troopers started developing openly rebel-sympathetic views. Tensions started running high, and units who were deployed stopped coming back. Nobody had to ask where they had gone.

The tensions came to a head in late 2505. The rebel-supporting troops turned on their comrades, which resulted in a bloodbath. The remaining men and women involved in the Black-Ops unit went to war with one another. Inevitably the loyalists won out, but the costs were high. A fraction of ORION's original strength remained, and the concept had become heavily shaken.

ONI recognized all the inherent flaws of the ORION Project. While the genetic alterations hadn't been complete failures, they didn't provide nearly as much of an advantage as they'd hoped for. Older men and women were especially just not capable of it. Moreover, taking veterans who had already been fighting an enemy for so long and then subjecting them to worse horrors took its toll, and simply did not work. Indoctrination could only be done effectively at a young age.

By 2506, ONI had deactivated the project and swept it under the rug. Any survivors were integrated back into the main branches of the military or sent home. Soon, the project had never taken place, and the memories of images of super-soldiers conquering the galaxy faded from the minds of the people. To the best of Rommel's knowledge, any associated files were now safeguarded by Section Zero- Who most people didn't even know _existed. _Many who knew chose not to believe. Section Zero's machinations were completely unknown to anyone who wasn't a part of it, and that was exactly how they liked it.

While Rommel's own augmentations had taken beautifully, they weren't without their drawbacks. Even by 2549 he still had the occasional migraine or general sense of nausea. More importantly, the drugs that made all of this possible had altered him so profoundly genetically that his nervous system had been altered in some ways. The most hindering of which was the fact that he was incapable of receiving cloned tissue anymore. His body rejected them. When his biological eyes had been destroyed during Jericho VII, he had been forced to get prosthetic replacements, rather than cloned ones.

The genetic changes were covered up in one of the UNSC's greatest conspiracies. Boren's Syndrome. Supposedly, he had been in contact with enough radiation to damage his DNA on a level that made it impossible to repair. Those who had it would supposedly die unless they underwent rigorous chemotherapy sessions. Of course, since the disorder did not exist, nobody would ever die of it.

Another effect that no one had predicted was that the children of the ORION troopers could have similar, albeit muted, traits. Because the changes _were_ on a genetic level, this made it possible for their offspring to inherit most traits that the ORION troopers had acquired on a lesser scale. Three of Rommel's children were notably above average in their physical and mental traits.

Not that Rommel had _ever_ had any doubt in their abilities.

Perhaps the greatest irony of the ORION Project, however, was that it was not the end.

Ultimately, ONI unveiled their "SPARTAN-IIs," and retroactively named the ORION Project members "SPARTAN-Is." Rommel and Almec had oftentimes wondered why ORION was renamed, rather than naming the next generation ORION II. Neither ever said it out loud, but they both knew the answer: ONI didn't want to be reminded of its failures.

Forty three years had passed since the Project had been shut down, and in that time, so much had happened. He'd gained so much and lost it all. His family, his friends, his home, his _life._ His squad had been the only thing holding him together for _years_. _Almec_ had been the thing holding him together for _ages._

When had his closest friend gone bad? For how long had Rommel been walking with a knife so far in his back that his very heart beat black from loss?

And how had he never come to realize it?

A part of him wanted to ask. A part of him _needed_ to ask. He found himself biting his tongue forcing himself _not_ to ask, because he knew that if he had an answer, it would tear apart what little shattered remnants of his sanity remained after all these long years, after his time spent on this wretched world.

His knife began shaking wildly in his hand as he tried tearing away at the grate. He could feel his knees slowly starting to shake and buckle beneath him. He glanced around desperately, thinking that perhaps the Earth was shaking beneath his feet. The city had experienced quakes from time to time, and it wasn't impossible that some fault might have decided to give... Or perhaps some gigantic beast was thundering its way through the halls.

Deep in his heart, Rommel knew the ground was not shaking. It was his mind and his heart that were shaken to the core.

Had it not been in this room that he had mourned the loss of his best friend? Had it not been this room where he had found the solidarity to move forward?

His fingers could no longer grasp the knife. He felt his insides boiling up and cool as he tried desperately to keep his head about it all. A bloodthirsty rage and a chilling despair were welling up inside him, and despite his best efforts to contain them... He could not keep them at bay.

Rommel gripped the perforated edges of the grate as best he could, and began to pull.

Within the comfort of his helmet, sealed off from the outside world, knowing that no one could hear him...

Rommel roared.


	32. The Truth

There was a brief sound of metal pangs as the grate Rommel had been working on came free of the disgusting sludge that coated the walls, giving access to what precious few weapons were left behind it. The man placed his hands at either side of the opening and leg his head hang for a moment, appearing winded... Or something else.

Dominic Almec stepped behind his long-time friend, saying nothing. He didn't ask if Rommel was alright, or what was going through his head. He knew exactly what was going through his head. He didn't need to ask. He didn't _want_ to know. Not now, not after everything had been set out into the open air.

Not everything, he supposed.

He held his pistol loosely in hand. His other hand held two sixty-round MA5 magazines, which he was admittedly reluctant to consider parting with. He'd spent the past couple minutes trying to clear them to make sure they wouldn't jam up, and he was going to start working on dislodging a crate that he was pretty sure had been trapped in place by somebody's liquefied remains, given that he was pretty sure the damn thing had a face. With any luck, that box might contain a few more magazines, instead of just more boots.

Clearly, Rommel had found weapons he thought might work.

The giant made a motion to reach in and grab one, then hesitated. Then the helmet began to turn slowly to look toward Almec, midnight blue visor centered directly on him. **"**_**What?**_**"** Rommel spat, his voice sounding as though he'd finished a Marathon. Almec doubted that was due to exerting himself in the process of liberating those MA5s.

"**I found two magazines. I'm working on a crate that might have ammo. Already found three pairs of boots and one box of spare parts for an SRS99," **he told Rommel. He looked toward the rifles that Rommel was still blocking, and nodded toward them. **"Do those work?"** he asked hopefully.

The giant appraised him for a moment in silence, then sighed. **"I have no idea,"** he told him flatly. **"But they're the only thing I saw that wasn't covered in shit. So, maybe." **Rommel reached into the grate, and removed one of the four rifles within reach. He had to twist and turn it in order to work it out of the hole he'd made, but it came free after a moment.

A few flecks of the brown stuff marred its electronics suite, but was brushed away easily. Rommel went about checking the thing over, until something seemed to catch his eye. He stopped abruptly, and stared down at the rifle. Almec couldn't see the look on his face due to the polarized visor, so he had no idea what the issue might have been. **"What is it?"** he asked.

"**It's loaded,"** Rommel responded plainly. **"Thirty-two rounds."** He looked up from the rifle, at Almec again. There was a moment of hesitation before he pulled his hand away from the grip, and extended the rifle toward Almec. **"Take it,"** he said, reaching for another. **"If I find one that isn't broken, you can have it. Just make sure nothing tears through the door and comes after us."**

That was... Unexpected.

Almec took the rifle a bit apprehensively. He ejected the magazine, and checked it. Sure enough, it was loaded. After he replaced it, he glanced at the electronic ammo counter. The second digit was broken, so he could still see the three, but not the two. It still gave a general idea of how many rounds you had left anyway, and gave some extra incentive to be cautious with it.

Not that either of them _needed_ the ammo counters to work anyway. ORION had taught them both a great many things, and one of the most important was getting by on basic gear.

As Almec stood inspecting the weapon, he realized that Rommel was watching him over his shoulder. When Almec looked up from the rifle, he cocked a brow at Rommel. **"Don't you have some fucking crates to unbury?"** the giant asked, which was undoubtedly as effective as a suggestion to fuck off. He didn't wait for an answer, and started digging right through the mess again.

Almec stared after him a moment longer. His eyes narrowed at the man, and a pain swelled up in his destroyed facial muscles as they made attempts at pulling that side of his face into a sneer. He felt a trickle of blood roll away from the wound, reopened by the attempt. He shook his head slowly and turned away, supposing he _did_ need to unearth whatever was in the crate, even if it was just another pair of boots.

The trouble of it was... He was _sickened._ Looking at Rommel was _sickening_ to him.

After all this time, Rommel still didn't know. He _still_ didn't realize. Almec had always thought as much, but he had now all but confirmed what he'd long since known...

Rommel was _still_ deluding himself. After all these years, the Spook had become so wrapped up in fabrication and lies that he had ceased to realize what the truth actually was anymore. And he still wasn't _capable_ of throwing open the blinds to light up the darkest corners of his mind, to _show_ him what had gone wrong.

To understand why his best friend had betrayed him.

When Rommel asked him why, Almec had bitterly asked why Rommel _thought _he might do such a thing. Incapable of understanding motives rooted in a situation that he refused to remember, and oftentimes attributing indecent actions to primitive Human desires, Rommel had _wrongly_ assumed that Almec's reason for betrayal was greed, that he'd been paid off to do it. It was at that moment that Almec had realized that he really _didn't_ remember what had happened twenty years ago on Resolnare.

And in that moment, he pitied his old friend to some degree, because he'd been running all these years from a truth far more horrible than he was willing to accept. He _hated_ him because he had gone so far into his madness that he had no idea who'd dealt the first blow... And he let him go on thinking that it was true, because to make him remember would be to destroy his mind. Neither of them would ever escape if that were to happen.

Only Dominic Sólyom Almec, Edward _Adalwolffe_ Rommel, and the spirits of the damned knew the rotten truth.

Neither Dom nor Ed were merely common men, and their origins were greatly similar.

Resolnare was their shared homeworld, and it was a world of beauty and danger. Great mountain ranges, fertile plains, plentiful oil and minerals... And wildlife spread throughout it all that made some Covenant species look tame by comparison. The closest thing that either of them had seen that could even remotely compare was Reach, which was like a second home to them as it was after all these years.

But though their world was _aligned_ with the United Earth Government, or "Earth-Gov" as some had taken to calling it, it did not _abide_ by it to the letter. It had attained what many colonists on other worlds would later hope to achieve, an independent co-existence with the UEG that mutually benefited both. Resolnare was a valuable asset to any of its allies... For the right price.

Resolnare was run in an odd way from other worlds. It did not abide by any sort of Democratic processes. Instead, it was run as an Aristocracy. The world's wealth of resources were controlled by whatever Houses held power in the regions they were present, and were exploited heavily for the most profit that could be made. Certainly, if an area was rich in oil, it was powerful. If a region contained the necessary materials for building spacefaring vessels? It was unstoppable, for even now, Humanity was only just displaying any form of mastery over space.

One had to put things in perspective. Prior to the Insurrection's peak, a _Heavy Frigate_ was something unheard of.

Rommel and Almec were from Houses that had formed great rivalries, which had been broken by they themselves. Almec was from the House of Sólyom, formed by the Hungarian settlers, and Rommel from the House of Wolffe, from the Germans. The Wolffe County was the largest in the Vhett Territory, and Sólyom was next. Political maneuvering between the two had gone on for generations, until the two boys became friends in an unexpected twist of fate. It was storybook, really: At first, their parents had been vehemently against them... Until they realized their pettiness, and set it aside. Some hostilities had always been present, but the two were no longer nearly at war with one another.

Despite the planet's relative peace, and its enjoyment of independence from Earth-Gov, there were inevitably some murmurs in the dark. Some believed that independence from the UEG was not enough. Rather than maintain a peace with the UEG and supply them with resources, they should have put those vast resources to use funding the rebellion of other Colonies who desired such a state. Most chose to laugh off these notions. The UEG became concerned with the state of affairs, but ultimately did not meddle in them. That was, after all, their agreement.

When the Insurrection struck out against the ruling classes of Resolnare, no one was laughing.

Especially not Rommel, who had lost several close relatives in the same attack that had been used to target the ruling House. And Almec was close behind, with a few injured members himself.

So when the two banded together and agreed that they should join the fight against the Insurrection, it was a battle all too personal. Almec and Rommel had both been attending a University. Rommel, having made one foolish decision too many, had already started a family for himself. Almec fought to secure the peace of their world. Rommel fought to secure a future for himself and his family.

They fought for _many_ years against the Insurrection, and things had taken some interesting turns, such as when they both joined ORION. Rommel and Almec had both become heroes, as far as Resolnare was concerned... But somewhere along the way, Rommel had started to lose himself. He became much more aggressive toward the Insurrection, more brutal. Sometimes the man was downright _cruel._ But his methods worked, and together, the two inevitably pushed the rebels off their world... And pushed off-world to fight them on a great many other fronts.

By the time the Covenant had become a known threat, Rommel and Almec both had families of their own. Almec's remained on Resolnare, but Rommel had brought his with him to Reach so that he could remain in contact with them easier. That played out as a fool's choice, as the Insurrection attacked Reach itself... And Rommel lost his oldest son and youngest daughter within two days' time frame.

Almec had not been there for it. They'd been on leave. But there were murmurs that Rommel's daughter had not been a victim of the attack, but a part of it. Some people claimed that Edwina had not been shot by any rebel, but by her own father. Some claimed that Peter had not been a victim of a car bombing, but instead, the bomber himself.

The world at large could not say for certain, and the man himself never told anyone of it. By that point, the two had long since been employed by ONI... And Rommel had made the necessary connections so that he could very easily cover up whatever the truth may have been. Whatever the case, he sent what remained of his family back to their homeworld, where they knew the Insurrection had long since been beheaded. Rommel had been driven to the brink of madness by the events that transpired, but he knew their home was safe.

That remained true until the Covenant appeared. And it only took them six years to reach their home.

The Covenant attacked Resolnare in 2531. Rommel's parents, Dieter and Tanya, had died of old age while he and Almec had been beating the Covenant away from Harvest and Arcadia. The official story was that all communications had been lost, and it wasn't until a UNSC Fleet was deployed to check out the situation that they found out the Covenant had glassed the entire world. Ultimately, the truth was far, _far_ darker than that.

Rommel's parents had, through political maneuvering and as side-effects of the war with the Insurrection, come to be in control of Resolnare itself, Dieter having become the Planetary Governor- Though that was not the title he was called by- which had, in fact, left Rommel in control of Wolffe County, and the Vhett Territory as a whole. Rommel had left his son, Dietrich, to handle what needed to be handled in his stead... But when he understood that the role of the world's leader was his to take, he was torn.

The Covenant were a known threat, but they had not yet revealed their true potential. What was Harvest? An agricultural world thrice-removed from the galaxy at large. What was Arcadia? Groombridge? Eridanus II? Worlds hardly noticed by the galaxy at large, destroyed only because the UNSC did not understand what it was up against. It wasn't a lack of power, it was a lack of knowledge.

Or so they thought.

Rommel returned to Resolnare, and Almec- Having long since taken control of his own estate, just as Rommel had- followed him as support. If Rommel chose to take control, the planet would have accepted him wholesale. And why shouldn't they? A rich kid turned War Hero, having spent _years_ of his life fighting the enemies of their homeland? An Officer in the UNSC? A man who understood what it took to survive, had lost both friends and family, and kept a smiling face all the same?

They returned home, but the Covenant arrived within the same week. And the results were devastating.

They fought the Covenant on all fronts, desperately fighting a war of survival against the genocidal aliens with admirable tenacity. But Resolnare never possessed any massive Army, no Great White Fleet of any mention. And with the Insurrection having been crushed, it was no longer thought that one was needed. Some token forces remained on the world to keep things in check, but the world had established some stable peace.

The threat of the Covenant had never been on the ground. They lacked tactics, only the Sangheili had the discipline and military orientation. All the other Covenant client races were quick to run from a fight, and were little more than cannon fodder for the Elites or the occasional Brute, providing enough of a bullet sponge to allow them to close in for the kill.

The true threat of the Covenant was that their _technology_ was far superior. They had shielding, energy weapons, durable armor... And ships the size of cities, with the capacity to wipe cities off the map at a whim.

And Resolnare, for all its beauty, for all its peace, could do _nothing_ to combat that.

The Covenant steamrolled anything they could throw at it. It was the largest Fleet that either Rommel or Almec had seen at the time. Evacuation attempts were failing _horribly. _Corvettes shot down everything before it could reach the atmosphere, and Battlecruisers burned everything left on the ground. Rommel had to watch as the world he'd inherited burned around him, and had to make the calls on what was to be done.

They both knew their home was doomed. Almec believed that their only option was to devote all resources to evacuate as many people as possible, no matter the cost. Rommel agreed that evacuating everyone was important, but ultimately, he'd set his sights on a different goal; Foolishly, he'd believed that they could _win._ They could _destroy_ the Covenant. It was the largest Fleet either of them had seen, it could just as easily be the _main_ Fleet. If they destroyed it, they could cripple the Covenant. They would lose their home, but they would save infinitely more people if they succeeded.

They threw everything they had at the Covenant, and in the end, it wasn't enough. Entire cities were sacrificed because they had become key points to the Covenant, leveled in order to halt their progress. Only a few transports made it off-world, while countless more were destroyed. In the end, Rommel's efforts to stop the Covenant had cost them _everything._ He'd killed _everyone. _His friends, his enemies, and those he was sworn to protect. Reports in the battle were scarce and of arguable accuracy, but several had indicated that the transport carrying both Rommel and Almec's family were shot down.

Rommel had killed everyone. For his one shot at glory, for his gamble at destroying the Covenant's military, he had killed everyone.

And, like so many other things, the whole event was covered up... And Rommel _believed_ it. He'd killed everyone, and wiped his hands clean of it, both in history and in his mind. He _believed_ that he was never there for it. He _believed_ that the Covenant, _not him,_ were the ones who had destroyed their beloved home. Rommel had always been poor at keeping his stories straight- He'd heard the man tell such nonsense as that the two of them had only been sixteen when they joined the UNSC- but this went beyond that. The man couldn't own up to his mistakes, couldn't face the truth that _he had killed them._

And for _that,_ Almec had decided to strike back, for _that,_ Almec made the decision that his best friend had to be stopped, had to be _put down._

It was always a matter of when and how.

The Human League had become a means to that end, and their efforts had been unsuccessful. Almec had been planning on disappearing after that, on fading into the background. The Human League had captured a _massive _group of civilians, Rommel's sister among them. How they had managed to capture her was beyond Almec's knowledge or care, but they did. She was the bait, and Rommel came running... Only, despite the carefully laid trap, the man had not been killed, and neither had his sister. No, that came when the Covenant glassed _that _world a week later.

The aftermath of that mission had left their Squad under ONI's watchful eye, and on its bad side. Almec had been unable to disappear, and he had been forced to endure Rommel's continued existence.

Rommel had been his best friend. But he could not forgive him for what he had done.

Now, Rommel knew of Almec's involvement, but not his reasoning. Rommel had never once forgiven a traitor, and he wouldn't start now. Only one of them would make it off this world. When the time came, Almec would either win, and disappear and be done with the UNSC, done with the Covenant, done with this _damned galaxy..._ Or he would lose, and disappear from existence altogether.

Live or die, he knew one thing: Rommel could not be allowed to live. He'd survived a long time, and endured a great many battles, but that time needed to come to an end. He wasn't sure if he could win that fight. But he couldn't shoot Rommel while his back was turned, either. He was _loathe_ to admit it, but he _needed _that monster in order to survive this wretched place.

But first, they needed ammo. Without that, he'd never even get the chance at that showdown, and neither of them would leave this place.


End file.
